Westwood University
by bethanyyerinn
Summary: University AU. Teenlock/Unilock. Sherlock and John meet by becoming roommates during their first year at university. Fun fluffiness and adventures and drama and smut and evil plots and good stuff like that. Ships: Johnlock, some Mystrade.
1. Prologue: Beginnings

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**University AU. Note: 1) Sherlock's backstory in this first chapter is completely of my own making and not in any way related to the show Sherlock or the writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. 2) Westwood University is not a real university; I made it up because it's easier to invent a school than to research a real one.**

**I plan for this fic to be very long, just so you know when you're getting in to it now. I have a great deal of plans for it. Who knows how far I'll take this, but this could end up being twenty or more chapters, depending on how excited I get. I will probably update really quickly, but if I don't, there shouldn't be more than a week between chapters. If I take longer, feel free to nag me with a PM and tell me to hurry up!**

**Lastly, it's rated M for smut that starts in chapter 14. Sorry it's so far, but you'll get there.**

**Anywho, that's all. Enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was, as a grievous understatement, an unusual person. But, to be fair to him, he never had much chance to be otherwise.

Sometimes, there are cases of peculiar human beings born to quite ordinary families—the black sheep. It was quite common, actually. But Sherlock, he was a bit of a different story. It was as if he had an entire family of black sheep and he turned out some weird silver colour, an anomaly amongst anomalies.

Everyone in the Holmes family was different in their own way.

Mr Holmes had just been plain strange in general, I suppose you could say. He was socially awkward to the extreme (maybe that's partially where his children got their social ineptitudes) and he was completely obsessed with World War II era aeroplanes. He was a professor at a local university and he kept himself locked up, playing with his miniature models of these aeroplanes. In many ways, he was much like a child, when he was alive (he died when his younger son was three).

Mrs Holmes had been uncanny in a completely different way. She was kind and accepting in a way that rarely existed in the world, almost to the point that it made other people uncomfortable, because she was accepting of _everything_. If a murderer came to her door, she would gladly let him in for a cuppa—though, of course, she wasn't totally stupid, so she would keep said person away from her children. But she thought anyone—and I do mean _anyone_—could change, and even if they _could_, she didn't really seem to think most people needed to.

But then there were the Holmes boys. Mycroft and Sherlock. One might think that, startlingly acute minds as they had, they might have come from great minds themselves, but they didn't. One might also think they came from cold, unfeeling parentage, considering that neither of them were ever ones for sentiment, but their parents had been nice enough. It's rather a mystery how the two boys ended up as they did.

Mycroft was cunning, had a hunger for power even from a young age, and also knew when to smile even when he didn't want to and how to put on an act—because he never really _cared_ about anything. He thought it was a waste of time, a weakness, to love. He was a politician at heart. And he was smart. Oh, he was clever. He knew just what buttons to press to make people do what he wanted, and he knew just what it was they wanted just by looking at them.

But then there was his younger brother, Sherlock. Mycroft was clever, sure, but Sherlock Holmes… He made Mycroft look like a moron. The boy's mind was hardly even an organ anymore. It had become a machine, or maybe an alien organism, with how far advanced it was compared to others. He was arguably the most intelligent person on the planet. But he was also insensitive, selfish, a show off, oftentimes cruel. So, on that account, he and Mycroft were much the same.

But the difference there was that Sherlock was not always that way.

Sherlock had deleted the information somewhere around the age of thirteen, but if he hadn't, he would remember the exact day that he changed. The exact moment. He was eleven, his older brother eighteen. Mycroft had always been the way he was, to a point. Probably he would never change either. But Sherlock… his heartlessness had a specific cause, and because of that, there was room, if only a little, for redemption.

* * *

Sherlock didn't actually mean to irritate his classmates, or hurt their feelings. It was hard for him to understand that there was always a double-standard in place for him: other people could say their opinions if they wanted, but Sherlock had to hold his in.

Because Sherlock just saw too much. He could just tell things about his classmates, just by looking at them. There were clear signs. He thought it was obvious and never could figure out why other people didn't see what he saw.

And he hated it. Because he couldn't keep himself from seeing things, he just did. He didn't try. And he never knew what things he was supposed to be able to tell and what things were too much. That was a common trait in any child: not knowing when to keep their mouth shut. But for Sherlock, it was a much more severe problem. He made people uncomfortable because he knew so much about them. Sometimes he even tried to hide it, but the school was small. They all knew about his little talent and would poke at him until he admitted what he saw, and once he did, they would be insulted and hate them for it. He would try to tell them that was the precise reason why he hadn't planned on telling them at all, but they still acted as if it was his fault.

Everyone in his primary school hated him. He wanted so badly to relate to them, but they all knew that he knew things, and they didn't want to deal with that. So they shunned him, and the bigger, dumber boys hit him, partially because he had said at least one thing to insult all of them, but also because they were jealous that they couldn't be clever too.

Sherlock, to a point, was used to being treated horribly. But how could he bring himself to not care? He tried and tried, but always, it hurt him that the other kids just called him _freak_ all the time, said they _detested_ him. What kid even knows the meaning of the word detest anyway? But the children would teach themselves words like that just so that they could tease Sherlock. It was a game and they all thought it was loads of fun. Watching Sherlock get punched by the bigger kids was one of the biggest treats they could get after school was out.

Maybe Sherlock would have given up and hated them for it long ago, if it weren't for one thing. His mother. The days he came home hurt, she would look at him with sympathy in her eyes, but she would tell him that what those kids said didn't matter, because Sherlock was the most precious thing in her whole world, and he was special in a way that the children coveted. She insisted this over and over again, and in this, Sherlock could find peace in his oddities. As long as his mother was around, he could survive the bullying, because one person on the planet cared, and that's all he really needed.

So one day, he went to school as he always did. The children were cruel, that was nothing different. His mum told him she loved him when she dropped him off, said not to worry about what other kids think, that they surely have problems of their own to make them unkind and that Sherlock would do best trying to be nice to them back.

But things became different quickly. Because that day, he took his first good look at Mary Toddsworth. She had never been completely horrible. She didn't pay him much mind, actually. She only had one or two friends, two girls who didn't seem to be present that day. Sherlock, out of boredom, paid attention to her that day. He watched her interactions with others, saw how she acted on her own.

His conclusion was: Mary had three older sisters, two of which still lived with them and the other was attending Oxford University on scholarship. Her mother died at a young age so she lived with her father, who had a low income job and was sexually abusive.

So all he did was go up to her and try to engage in small-talk about her sisters, and then tell her that if she needed any help, because her father was a bad man and her mother was obviously not around to help, she could tell a teacher, or Sherlock could do it for her, if it made her uncomfortable.

He was trying to be nice, but she didn't appreciate it. She just screamed, and a teacher came running, looking at Sherlock expectantly, because he got into trouble by saying too much a lot. He really thought he'd judged the situation correctly this time, but it seemed he'd been wrong.

Mary told the teacher that he was being mean, and when he tried to argue that he wasn't, they were taken to the office. First they listened to her part of the story while he sat outside, and then she glared at him as he walked into the office to tell his part.

"Mary says you were being mean to her," said Ms Green, the principal. He knew she was in an especially rotten mood today since she had a row with her brother over the phone and her husband was out all night drinking again.

Sherlock, however, was feeling too indignant to just say sorry and get the punishment he had in store in peace. Instead, he argued. "I only wanted her to know that she wasn't trapped with her sexually abusive father, and that I wanted to help! How is that mean?"

"Sherlock," Ms Green said, hardly seeming to have heard him at all, "Mary said that you knew many things you had no business knowing, like about her sisters and mother and financial situation. She's afraid you found her diary and read it. Have you been going through her things?"

"I didn't read her diary," he squealed. "I could tell by looking at her!"

Ms Green had obviously both been expecting and dreading this answer. She became irritated. "Sherlock, how could you possibly know about any of that?"

"I just do."

"How?" she insisted.

Maybe he hated his gift sometimes, but if someone asked him to tell how he knew things, he couldn't help but tell them animatedly. And once you got him going, there was no stopping him.

"Mary has several older sisters, judging from the state of her obviously hand-me-down clothes. It could be that she has one sister that's just much older than her, which is obvious from how some of the clothes items are at least ten years out of fashion, but two things told me otherwise: the clothes were very worn at the knees, like it would be for a child who plays a lot of sports, but neither Mary nor her university-aged sister enjoy that kind of rough-housing, judging from her older sister's academic scholarship and Mary's hands, which have no callouses or scars from playing, so there must be another sister. Also, she is wearing three items: black trousers, pink shirt, blue jacket. The jacket's the oldest item, the one that clued me off to the oldest sister. But then the black trousers with the worn knees—though they don't fit correctly, making them also hand-me-down—are much newer, which means there's another sister, the sister who likes sports. And _then_ there's the pink shirt, which doesn't match the type of style of the other two items, which implies there's a more feminine sister that wears more pink than the other two. Thus the three sisters. And if she wears all hand-me-down clothes, of course she's poor. I knew her sister was at Oxford from the small pin Mary has on her backpack, so that was obvious, and she had a scholarship because there's no way she could afford to go there otherwise because of their lack of funds, and I knew about the dead mother from the locket that she wears around her neck that has obviously been worn by Mary for at least five years, judging by how worn it is, but was owned by an adult woman that she cared about dearly, considering that even though it's got the wear of a child, she holds it and polishes it frequently with her shirt. I only assumed it was a mother because how else could the father get away with molesting her unless there was no mother around to stop it?"

Ms Green just gaped at him, seeming to be at a loss for what to say.

Finally, she said in a hushed voice, "Why do you keep saying those things about her father? It's rude!"

"But it's true! Haven't you noticed the way she flinches if any adult male gets near her? It's not just with abrupt motions, and she has no bruises or scars from past injuries, so it's not physical abuse. If anything, she gets more nervous if they try to put a hand on her, even a comforting hand on the back. She pales and fidgets and she subconsciously grips the top of her jeans, as if trying to keep them up. All that considered, her father rapes her, probably frequently."

She looked lost for words again, but then looked furious. "Sherlock Holmes," Ms Green hissed. "You will stop this nonsense right this instant!"

"Nonsense? Don't you want to help her?" asked Sherlock, appalled. Sure, he had figured it out in an unorthodox way, but Mary was in trouble and nobody cared just because Sherlock was the one to figure it out.

"Sherlock, you need to stop this. Making up stories about your classmates to make yourself feel important."

"I don't make it up. Everyone always says the stuff I say is true."

"Maybe to indulge you, but—"

"But it _is_ true! I don't make it up, I s—"

"Sherlock!" she yelled, truly losing her temper. Sherlock went silent for a moment. "Haven't you noticed you've got no friends? Don't you want to have friends, Sherlock?"

This stopped Sherlock. Of course he wanted to have friends. "What am I supposed to do, not be myself?"

"Not be a know-it-all, yes."

"They all tell me to say what I've seen," Sherlock said quietly. "I'm not shoving on anyone, they _ask_."

"Because they're treating you like a spectacle, Sherlock," she said. Her voice had changed to something a bit softer, as if she thought her cruel words were meant to help rather than hurt the boy. "They think you're a freak and they make you be a freak over and over again so they can make fun of you for it. Stop being such easy bait."

Sherlock swallowed and, like he often did to keep from getting too upset, thought of his mother. She knew he didn't make it up, and she didn't think he was a freak.

"I shouldn't have said it," Sherlock said, knowing these were the words he needed to say to get out of the office. "I'm sorry."

"Good," Ms Green said. "Apologise to Mary and go back out to lunch. Detention will start tomorrow."

He walked to the door, but then added, "But, please, will you just look into the problem with Mary's father?"

"Sherlock…" Ms Green warned.

"Nevermind," he murmured, walking out of the office.

The rest of lunch was hell. Everyone had heard what he'd did from Mary, and so the boys came over and beat him up again and everyone watched and laughed. Sherlock just did what he always did. _It's okay_, he'd think to himself, _I'll see mum soon and I'll feel better_.

But Mycroft was the one who picked him up from school. Other than the fact that he never picked up Sherlock, he read on Mycroft's face something was wrong with his mum.

"What happened?" he asked immediately when he got into the passenger seat.

Maybe an older brother would usually sugar-coat the whole thing, but Mycroft wasn't sensitive to that type of thing and Sherlock wasn't the type that needed to be babied.

So he immediately told Sherlock that their mother had been shot in a convenience store. No reason, just a random act of violence. She died of her injuries.

The next long while went in a blur for Sherlock. But all he could think, over and over, was that his mother had said being kind made a difference.

His mother was the kindest person in the whole world and that hadn't made any difference for her.

It was like a steel wall had been erected over his heart, towards people in general. He was better than all of them anyway. How had he never noticed? He was clever, that was all that mattered. Why had he always hated his gift? It was his greatest asset and the only thing in the world that mattered.

That was the first day Sherlock deleted something from his mind. And what he deleted first was compassion. Then his social filter. Then any positive feelings he had towards people—it was all wasting space in his head, that miraculous head that could do so much. But how much more would it be able to do when he emptied if of everything useless? The possibilities were endless.

And that was when the true Sherlock Holmes was born.

* * *

Sherlock lived with Mycroft after that, even though he was insufferable most of the time, because it was better than living in foster homes or an orphanage. In fact, Mycroft decided to move away to London shortly after their mother died. Sherlock didn't mind at all—he'd had just enough time to be horrible to the children who were horrible to him before he left to satisfy him.

And each day he forgot more and more about his mother's kindness, everything she had taught. He didn't delete her entirely, for there were fond memories with her, but now that she was gone he realised she was a hare-brained and silly woman. He kept just enough of her in his mind that if he needed to remember her for something, he could. But why he would need to, he didn't know.

He went through high school with as many friends as he had in primary school, except he preferred it that way. People were only ever three things: dull, dim, and distracting. He didn't need to waste his time on them. In fact, he quite enjoyed irritating them and did it as often as he could.

Then Sherlock got a full-ride to Westwood University, a prestigious achievement. Not that he'd been expecting any different, considering his perfect marks in everything. And, of course, you needed an extra-curricular for universities to think you're special, but Sherlock was in the orchestra in high school—it was frustrating to deal with the other students so frequently (especially Anderson, the idiot that played clarinet that he despised so thoroughly that he deleted his first name from his mind every time he heard it), but he enjoyed violin enough to suffer through it. So, with the perfect marks and his extra-curricular that the teacher—though he disliked Sherlock immensely—had to admit he was spectacular at, Sherlock had easily gotten into Westwood. He heard Anderson was going too, as a Biology major, but he sincerely hoped that wasn't true.

Sherlock was excited to go, but there was one problem. They had no single dorm rooms, which meant he was destined to have a roommate. Sure, he'd lived with Mycroft his whole life, but they tried as much as they could not to associate with each other in any way. But some ordinary, painfully boring, idiotic person living in the same room as him? He shuttered at the thought…

But also was unwillingly curious as to what the person might be like, for some reason.

And Sherlock didn't know it yet, but his dorm-mate was going to change his life forever.

* * *

**I sincerely apologise for that corny last line, but I didn't know how to end it climatically.**

**Now will be the first of many times that I will be an annoying nag and ask that you review what you think so far. Review every chapter if you like, I don't care. I just like to know what people are thinking. You can also give ideas of what you'd like to see in future chapters, but I'm not guaranteeing they'll actually happen. Anywho, hope you enjoyed, and please review! (See, that's already the second review request and we haven't even gotten to chapter 1. I'll count them all as they appear for you.)**


	2. Chapter 1: A New Roommate

John was extremely nervous for his first day on campus. Classes didn't actually start until next Monday, but he got an early move in day, so he was going to have six days on campus before classes. He was glad, actually, because then he could get familiar with the school and maybe get to know his roommate a little.

His mum was hovering. Sure, he'd miss her and all, but she didn't need to stand so close, or pat his back every five seconds. Somebody was going to notice.

"Now remember, honey, you can change major whenever you want at this school. Don't be afraid, if your classes are too challenging."

He was getting really tired of hearing that. Everyone, as soon as they learned that he was going for a bachelor's in Biology in order to be a doctor, would look at him skeptically and say, "that sounds pretty hard, John." or "You sure you want to do that?" He'd thought people might be proud of him or something, but people seemed to think he was too stupid to handle the workload. He was past done hearing it.

"I know, mum," he said in frustration.

She noticed his change in mood and sighed. "I'm sorry, honey. You'll do great."

He considered holding onto his irritation, but then decided he was in too good of a mood for that and smiled. "Thanks."

"Harry," his mum called back, "say goodbye to your brother!"

Harry stepped out of the car, sunglasses and a cap firmly in place. John knew full-well she had a hangover, but mum was too oblivious to notice. She somehow hadn't even noticed that Harry and Claire weren't just friends either, but John wasn't going to force Harry out of the closet if she wanted to stay in.

"Get into loads of trouble for me," she said.

He rolled his eyes. "Sure thing," he muttered.

"Oh," she added, reaching into the car, "I got you something."

John was shocked. "You did?" he asked incredulously.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, amazing," she said dryly, handing him a wrapped box.

Mum smiled at John knowingly. "Open it, dear."

John unwrapped it, not having any idea what it could be, but when the box was visible, his face split into a grin.

"No way!" he said. He opened the box to see brand-new rugby boots.

"Yours are in bad shape," Harry said. "Thought you needed some good ones, now that you're playing for the university."

"Thanks," he said earnestly. John really did appreciate it, especially since he and Harry didn't always get on.

"Yeah, yeah," she said again.

"Harry," Mum said in a tired voice, "Try that again."

Harry sighed. "You're welcome," she corrected.

"Thank you," Mum replied. "Now give your brother a hug. You might not see him for a long time."

"I don't need a hug," John said quickly, gruffly.

Mum rolled her eyes. "_Boys_," she muttered. "But you're giving me a hug whether you like it or not."

John pretended to be annoyed, but really he was okay with it. He'd somehow convinced her not to go up with him to his dorm today, promising she could see it when he was more settled in and kids weren't making their first impressions, but a hug wasn't too much to ask. He didn't want to admit it out loud, but he was going to miss her a lot.

After their embrace was finished, he grabbed all his things and put it in one of the rolling tubs they had available—with a squeeze, he was able to fit all his stuff into it so he only had to take one trip—and waved one last farewell to his mum and sister before they drove away. He tried to ignore the immediate home-sickness that swelled in his stomach, and also the nervousness fluttering there. It'd all be fine. His teammates would become great mates and his roommate would be decent and he wouldn't run into Gina and his classes wouldn't be too difficult. That's what he kept telling himself.

But things immediately started to point out of his favour, because when he opened the door to his room, he just stood there in awed silence for a long time.

He figured that, having the second of five move-in days, he'd be there before his roommate. He was wrong there. In fact, it seemed like his roommate had lived in the room for months, from the state of it. The very first thing he noticed was that it kind of smelled like something died. And he knew what that smelled like too, because he used to go hunting with his dad. The next thing he saw was the utter mess. There were things everywhere, but it wasn't the type of mess you'd expect from some 18-year-old boy—you know, clothes and sports equipment, maybe comic books or something depending on their interests. No, there were really odd things scattered about this dorm room. Piles of papers being the most ordinary of it, but even that was odd, because what teenager had piles and piles of what looked like… well, it looked like photocopies of police reports, but it couldn't have been, could it? Then there were books in several different languages, and there was—

Wait a second, is that a whaling harpoon? John felt like he might faint.

And then he saw the boy it all belonged to. He hadn't turned to look at John yet, so all he could see was that the boy was indecently thin and had curly dark hair. He was sitting at his desk, his legs curled up into him on the chair in a way that most grown people couldn't manage, writing something. Right next to the paper he was working on was a skull. It looked like a real one too. Unlike most boys his age, he wore a button-up shirt and dark grey trousers. A suit jacket hung over the back of his chair, along with a blue scarf, and a huge, dark coat also hung from the bunk bed, which was covered, like everything else, with this boy's odd stuff.

Then the boy turned. He had extremely prominent cheekbones in a generally angular face and surprisingly, unnervingly keen pale blue eyes.

"Are you allowed to have weapons on campus?" was all John could think to ask, eyeing the harpoon.

"Didn't think you'd be here so early," the boy replied, not actually answering the question. "I planned to unpack everything and get it into drawers tomorrow."

John didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. "Erm," he said instead, "Guess I'm your roomie now."

The boy's face looked bored as he gave John a cursory glance, not bothering to reply to John's attempt at warmness.

Then the boy said, in a tired, uninterested sort of way, "Scholarship for rugby, probably a kinesiology major or something, absent father who took you on fishing trips, over-coddling mother, alcoholic lesbian sister, waiting for an ex-girlfriend you aren't fond of to appear any moment."

John felt like his mouth suddenly turned to sandpaper as it went completely dry. Had John imagined what the boy had just said?

"How did you know all that?" John asked after a long silence.

The boy stood. "I can get all this cleaned up rather quickly if you leave."

"L—leave? But I live here."

"Obviously. Put your cart in the room and go get some tea with that fiver in your pocket and come back in approximately thirty-six minutes and the room'll be ready for you."

The boy unceremoniously started shoving John out the door and pulling his cart in. Then he shut the door in John's face.

He was stunned. He didn't know what to think or say. But what he yelled through the door was, "We don't even know each other's names!"

The door was opened again swiftly. "You're John Watson and my name's Sherlock Holmes. See you in thirty-six minutes." And the door shut again.

John considered for a moment barging back into the room and telling off this peculiar person that was apparently to be his new roommate. He had no right to kick John out! And what was all that stuff in the room? John wanted it all gone, because a lot of it looked dangerous. He had a lot of things to say, actually… but then he tugged the five-pound note out of his pocket and shrugged. He guessed it could wait thirty-six minutes. He'd really like some tea anyway.

* * *

**Hey, hope you liked the chapter. I'm going to give my third review request now: Please review! Thanks in advance!**


	3. Chapter 2: Surpassing Expectations

Sherlock glanced around the room, deciding that his clean-up job was good enough to be acceptable for John. He'd put away anything against school rules—rules were extremely dull, sure, but he didn't exactly want to get expelled before school started either, so he decided he would conform, for now, to what the school desired of him. He put as much in drawers as he could, but he had to stack up his books in the corner and leave a lot of his casework out in piles. Hopefully John wasn't too nosey, because he didn't really want the guy looking through the things he had obtained illegally to do the police's job for them without permission.

He mused then about his new roommate. John Watson, the _jock_. Sherlock already knew that he and John weren't going to get on. He definitely qualified for the triple-D that most other people did (dull, dim, distracting).

Well, mostly. John hadn't actually reacted horribly to Sherlock. Most people were worse. And when Sherlock told him to leave and come back, he actually left, so that was a plus. Maybe John would at least leave him alone when he needed to be left alone.

Just then, the knock came at the door. Sherlock looked at his watch with a smirk. This John person took that thirty-six minute thing very seriously.

"Erm, Sherlock?" said John from outside the door. Sherlock went to the door and opened it, taking a second glance at him. Sherlock didn't know at first what was different about John to him than other people when he looked at him. He was short, with sandy blond hair and dark blue eyes that were a little bit mesmerising, because it was hard to tell they were blue at first because of how dark they were. He had a muscular build, obviously from the rugby, and laugh lines. He was a happy fellow, obviously. That, in itself, made him irritating. He wore a rather hideous jumper, but he didn't seem uncomfortable in it or anything, which implied he actually liked wearing them. One of _those_ then.

But still, Sherlock found John… Attractive.

Sherlock was a little surprised by it, but yes, that's definitely what he thought. It was the first person he'd thought of in that way… well, ever. But John was obviously a man, which was intriguing to Sherlock for a moment. Sherlock had deleted his sexual orientation ages ago. He had no use of it. But now, apparently it was coming back. Had he always preferred men? He didn't know. He didn't care. Even taking the time to process that John was good-looking was wasteful.

Sherlock had thought all this in a matter of seconds, so John was just getting around to looking past Sherlock and into the room. Sherlock helpfully stood aside to let him examine it.

"Well, it's better," John said. "At least the harpoon is gone. What was that for, anyway?"

"This is your set of drawers," Sherlock said.

Sherlock was again a little surprised when John let the harpoon thing go without a fuss. "Which bunk is mine?"

"The bottom," Sherlock replied.

John looked to Sherlock. "But it's still covered in your things."

Sherlock glanced at the bed. The bed had slipped his mind while cleaning somehow. See, John was already distracting him, and John hadn't even been here when Sherlock made the mistake. "Right," Sherlock murmured. "I'll move that."

"Does that mean I have to leave for another thirty-six minutes?" John asked tersely.

Sherlock barely smirked. "No," he said. "You can sit in my chair."

John did sit down, looking around the room awkwardly as Sherlock started to move things from the bed that was to be John's.

Then he asked, "How did you know my name?"

Sherlock glanced back to John. "I saw it on the side of your computer bag, one of those 'return if found' tags."

"And what about all those other things? Did you see them too?" John enquired.

Sherlock was surprised at how calm John sounded about it. Not angry at all. Just curious, mostly. Maybe mildly frustrated, but compared to others, he was serene in Sherlock's presence.

"Yes," Sherlock replied vaguely. "Was I right?"

"Mostly."

"What'd I get wrong?" Sherlock asked with an entertained look on his face.

"You said I was a kinesiology major or something."

"A common fallback for athletes," Sherlock explained. "I wasn't absolutely sure. But what are you?"

"How'd you know I play rugby?"

"What's you major?" Sherlock asked more insistently.

"Biology," John replied.

Sherlock actually stopped what he was doing and turned to John. "Really?" he asked.

"Yes. Why's that so surprising?"

Sherlock had just enough of a filter not to say 'because you seem too dumb to have that major'.

Instead, he got back to work and asked over his shoulder, "Why Biology?"

"I want to be a doctor," John admitted, and again Sherlock was surprised (but he didnt show it this time). Maybe he had pinned John all wrong. Or maybe he was one of those blokes that went in with Biology and then decided it was too hard and traded to Liberal Arts later, but he'd only know that with time. "What's your major then?" John asked.

"Why are you engaging in so much small talk? I obviously make you uncomfortable, so why are you bothering?"

John looked taken-aback by the question.

"We'll be living together all year," John said. "We're going to want to be on good terms."

"Nobody's on good terms with me," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"Well then I'll be the one to change that."

Sherlock didn't understand this strange boy, this doctor jock who reminded him of…

Reminded him of his mother. Nobody he'd ever met had made him think of his mother, but John did. Maybe Sherlock needed to give him a chance. A small one.

"I'm a Philosophy major at the moment," Sherlock said.

"At the moment?"

"I've changed seven times."

"School hasn't even started."

"I know, but I can't decide what I want. I've cycled through Biology, Chemistry, Music, Physics, Applied Mathematics, English Literature, Psychology… none of them quite suited my tastes."

"Are you just interested in everything?"

"No, I'm interested in very little, that's the problem."

"What about Forensic Science?" John suggested.

Sherlock was really tired of being surprised by John, but it happened again. "Why do you suggest that?" he asked carefully.

"You have all that stuff," he said, pointing to Sherlock's casework. "It looks like police reports or something. I thought maybe that meant that you were interested in Forensics."

"Not a horrible deduction," Sherlock decided aloud. "But also a little obvious. What else can you deduce about me?"

"Deductive reasoning," John said. "I remember learning about that in a Philosophy class in high school. Is that how you knew those things about me? Did you 'deduce' them?"

"The Science of Deduction. It's what I do," Sherlock said. "I have a website, actually."

"So, you never answered my question," John said.

"Which one?" Sherlock was noticing that neither man was willingly answering each other's questions often, leaving a lot of open ended subjects that John could be referring to.

"How did you know about those things? What made you deduce them?"

Sherlock couldn't hold it in anymore, so he started saying, quite quickly, "Your name was from the computer bag, I told you that. Simple enough, anyone could have done it. I knew your father took you on fishing trips because you have scars in your hands from getting yourself with the hooks many times, and I knew the father was absent because the scars are all ten years old at least, meaning he hasn't taken you in a while. It could mean that he's been busy, or that you don't like to go anymore, except you have a little key-chain on your laptop bag advertising a fishing locale that's also from ten years ago, meaning you still value the trips in your mind, but they've long since ended. Usually, that wouldn't be enough to go by, but there's also that jumper of yours. Your sports-obsessed father wouldn't have let you wear a jumper like that, so he obviously hasn't seen it. Then the over-coddling mother. That was obvious too. You've still got the lipstick stain on your cheek from where she kissed you goodbye. Could have been a girlfriend, but you tried to wipe it off, meaning it was unwelcome, meaning mother. Then the rest of it is from that box right there." Sherlock pointed to a box that contained rugby boots. "You play rugby, obviously. I knew you got a scholarship for it because the rest of your attire is inexpensive and you've brought very little with you, so you don't have a lot of money. How else did you afford to come here? And then the lesbian alcoholic sister. Alcoholic because the wrapping on the box was haphazard and there are tiny traces of blood where she cut herself on the tape, and her handwriting is atrocious on the box. Could be she sneezed while writing _and_ is clumsy, but more likely she was drunk when she was writing it, and nobody wraps gifts while they're drunk unless they're drunk all the time. Then her being a lesbian. I have done studies recently on female writing. I can tell with 90% accuracy what the sexual orientation of a woman is through their handwriting. With men only 60%, unfortunately, but I'm working on it. And last but not least, the ex-girlfriend. You have six text messages on your mobile, which you checked absently and put away when you walked in. You ignored the messages, which meant you didn't want to read them. Someone unwanted then. Couldn't be the mother, because she's the worrier, so you know that if you don't answer her texts, she'll just phone you, and you don't want that, and men don't text that insistently most of the time, so a girl. The rest were just good assumptions. First day of move in, probably this girl is coming to this school too and wants to talk but you don't."

Sherlock was on even better form than usual, apparently, because John was silent for a full ten seconds before his inevitable moment where he told Sherlock to fuck off.

And when John could speak, he finally said, "That… was completely incredible."

Sherlock thought he'd heard wrong for a second. "It was?"

John's eyes were lit up with excitement. "Amazing. Really quite something."

"Oh," Sherlock said. "Most people don't think so."

"How could they not? What do they usually think?"

"Piss off."

John smiled a little. "I guess I could understand that response too."

Sherlock didn't know what to think of John, but he had a warm feeling in his chest he almost didn't recognise. Something else that reminded him of his mum. This feeling he used to get when she would praise him, tell him he was special. He hadn't felt that way since she died… and he secretly kind of enjoyed it.

Maybe John wouldn't be such a horrible roommate after all.

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**Hope you enjoyed the chapter (again) and please review (again)! **

**That was request number four, by the way. This count will get entertaining once I get up into double digits. **


	4. Chapter 3: The Notesman

**I'm coming out with chapters really fast right now because I'm having a lot of fun writing this story. It probably won't always be this fast. Just so you know.**

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John couldn't help but be astounded by Sherlock. Being able to see that much in so short a time… no wonder the guy was odd. It seemed that genius and sanity were two things that never went together, and Sherlock Holmes was obviously a proper genius.

And, as that implies, he was a strange boy. That was obvious from the start, with the smell of dying animals and the weapons, but the weapons were gone and the smell was mostly dissipated, so John thought he could handle it. And he didn't know why, but something about Sherlock made him feel… alive. His life had never been so interesting, and he had known Sherlock for two days—actually, not even, more like thirty hours.

Living with Sherlock was definitely weird. Probably weirder than he even expected it to be from the moment he met him—and that's saying something, because he was expecting some odd stuff.

John understood now why Sherlock had already changed majors so many times. First off, Sherlock changed his mind on everything a lot. One minute he'd want to do something, and the next it would be 'the dullest thing he'd ever heard of'. Second, Sherlock had a wide range of talents, from being able to successfully create a controlled explosive with just bendy straws, sewing needles, and an empty soda can to composing music on his violin. John was often amazed by Sherlock, because everything he did was something most other people couldn't. And he just knew _everything_ about _everything_.

Okay, wrong there. He was less socially capable than a pigeon—and everybody hates pigeons. But somehow, John was able to handle it better than others. Sure, John realised his new roommate was a complete know-it-all, rather mean at times, insensitive to the extreme… but John couldn't bring himself not to like Sherlock.

Nobody else reacted to Sherlock the way he did, which confused him. Nobody else thought he was amazing. John didn't get why nobody could see it.

And maybe he could never know what Sherlock was thinking, but he liked to entertain the fact that he didn't completely hate John's company.

John mused about all of this as he stared up at the bunk above him, unable to sleep.

"Hey, Sherlock," John murmured. Though it was four in the morning, Sherlock was still at his desk. Sherlock hadn't slept the night before either, as far as John could tell, and he wondered how Sherlock functioned on no sleep. He'd been quiet since one, thankfully (or maybe that should have frightened John, but he was too exhausted to consider that), but John still was unable to shut his eyes. He wasn't sure what he was thinking about, exactly, but whatever it was wouldn't get out of his head.

"Yes?"

"Will you _please_ tell me what The Pile is?" John had asked this question at least five times—The Pile referring to Sherlock's stack of paper that looked like a bunch of police reports—but had been met with either a change in subject or just plain silence each time. He didn't have much more hope this time.

"Are you ever going to stop asking?"

"We're living together, mate. I'll be seeing it every day. So probably not."

Sherlock exhaled as loudly as he could manage in the childish way he did. "They're what they look like," he sighed. "I call it my casework."

"From?"

"Previous cases."

John took a deep breath so he didn't get irritated. "_Cases_ being?"

Sherlock sighed again, as if it pained him to speak at all, but said, "I kind of obtain information on police cases so I can solve them myself. Then I inform Scotland Yard of my discoveries and they pretend they solved the case themselves. These are all old cases, but I keep it all in case I need to look over it again. Probably I should burn it, but nobody suspects me, so I don't think it matters that I keep it."

John was gaping at Sherlock, because he put the pieces together quickly. "My god, are you… you're… no way!"

"I hoped you hadn't heard about that."

"Everyone's heard of it!" John scoffed. "My roomie's The Notesman…" The Notesman had become fairly famous in London. He was a mysterious person that left notes on the doorstep of Scotland Yard with the answers to their current cases, specifically the ones that they were having trouble solving themselves. He never got caught leaving the notes by any of the cameras outside, but Scotland Yard had no idea how he did it. They wanted to keep it under wraps, of course, but naturally everyone knew about it. He'd become a legend… but apparently, he was very real. He was right here. John was again astounded by Sherlock. "You know, they're calling you a vigilante," he added.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned. "So like people, romanticising everything. I'm not a hero, I'm just bored."

"But you save lives, Sherlock. Doesn't that matter to you at all?"

Sherlock looked over to John. "Should it?"

And there was the other half of John's feelings about Sherlock. He was a heartless bastard and it was extremely irritating. "Of course not," John said dryly, "Why would it?" He flipped over in his bed so he was looking at the wall.

"That's why you don't make heroes out of people, John. They only disappoint you."

John glanced over his shoulder. "Who the hell said I made a hero out of you? I only just met you."

Sherlock didn't respond and John fumed for another moment, but then turned again. "Are you working on a case now?"

Sherlock looked up to John absently. "Yes."

"About?"

"Well it's not like you could help, so—" Sherlock started rudely, but then his eyes lit up and he got a big ol' smile on his face that made John nervous. "John!" Sherlock said. "You're a Bio major."

"I haven't started yet, but yes," he said, even though it was obvious.

"But you already know a lot about such things, I presume. Advanced classes in high school, general outside interest that made you read books on it."

"Yes… What are you getting at, Sherlock?"

"You _could_ help me! I always appreciate a second eye on such things, and anyway bringing the skull with me always causes a fuss. I always figured I needed a partner, but I didn't think I'd ever find one… but you _could_ be!"

John really had no idea what to say at first. But the more he thought about the idea… he didn't want to admit it, but it thrilled him. He could be the personal assistant of The Notesman? It was like every little boy's wet dream. Well, they didn't know that The Notesman was actually an arse, but still, it would probably be worth it.

"What would you have me do?" John asked, not wanting to sound excited.

But you couldn't hide a thing from Sherlock. "You don't care what I'll have you do, you already want in."

John rolled his eyes. "But will you tell me anyway?"

"Give your medical opinion."

"But I'm not a doctor yet."

"No, but you're the closest I've got to it."

John rolled around on his bed so he was sitting up. "When do we start?"

"Now."

"But what about sleeping?"

Sherlock only laughed.

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**Hopefully a satisfying chapter. If so, let me know in a review! (Damn, are we on request five now?)**

**So please review!**

**(Oh, and there's six. I think I've gotten to five past desperate.)**


	5. Chapter 4: Defensive Manoeuvring

**Just as a note for Americans reading this, a sub-warden is pretty much the same as an RA in college (or, at least, that's what I gather from a bit of web research).**

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Sherlock was almost positive that his brain was malfunctioning. He'd tried to rifle through it through meditation to see if there was anything physically wrong with it, but from what he could tell, it was perfectly normal. But obviously, something was wrong.

Because he had lived with John Watson for an entire month and he sincerely enjoyed his company.

Sherlock Holmes, who had never enjoyed anyone's company in his life (or at least, not since the things he deleted from childhood).

But John was actually quite interesting. His major somehow being Biology when most things about him pointed to it being something useless wasn't the only thing about John that was strangely contradictory. He first came off as just a kind sort of person, nice to everyone, but he also had this intriguing temper too, one that flared around Sherlock often. Sometimes he even enjoyed petty revenge, something most kind people didn't partake in. Sherlock liked to watch John try to think of a way to trick the genius. Not that he'd ever actually surprised him, but it was still entertaining. And then, Sherlock's favourite of John's oddities was that he came off at first as the type of person that wouldn't take risks (well, other than playing rugby, but even that is rule-oriented violence), but when he went off with Sherlock on a case, it seemed the more dangerous and the more likely to get caught by the police it was, the more excited John would get about it. He didn't seem to even realise it himself, but his heart-rate increase and pupil dilation were not from fear, but from pure exhilaration. Sherlock could tell the difference.

But what was maybe even more surprising about John, more surprising than the rest of it, was that he seemed to enjoy Sherlock's company too. More than once, John had turned down going someplace with his teammates if Sherlock had a case lined up already. Or, if the person had just said something rude about Sherlock, John would icily decline too (though if he was currently mad at Sherlock, he would add something about how he agreed that Sherlock was a prat, but still decline). Sherlock tried not to let that make him feel so smug and happy, but he couldn't help it.

John was now lying on his bed on his stomach, feet crossed in the air as he glared down at his Biology book. Sherlock knew he had meant to say something, but he found himself staring at John, almost as if trying to memorise every plane of his body. Not that Sherlock hadn't done that already as much as he could without actual intimacy.

Not that he had considered intimacy. Of course not. Sherlock didn't ever consider _that_ with anyone…

Sherlock, half to break off his own train of thought—because his homework wasn't enough to do that—said, "I've got a stake-out ready for tonight."

As soon as John looked up, Sherlock could tell John was in a rotten mood. "Sherlock, I'm busy. I have my first exam tomorrow." He looked back down at his book and scribbled something furiously in his notebook.

"But we might actually be able to catch the person this time," Sherlock added.

John looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock had to try not to smile. He always knew what to say to get John on board. And this time, it was the truth.

See, Sherlock had always kept his crime-fighting to only leaving notes for the police. But Sherlock and John had discussed several times that they might as well catch the perpetrator themselves and put them tied up on the doorstep with a note in their mouth. Sherlock wanted to wait for the perfect case to do this, and he had found it.

"You mean catch them ourselves?" John asked.

"That's exactly what I mean."

John couldn't fight the pleasure and anticipation that lit up his eyes and Sherlock couldn't stop the grin that came to his lips at seeing it.

"Wait," John said, the light disappearing immediately, which was followed a moment later by Sherlock's smile, "I really can't, Sherlock. I have to study for this test."

"You have all day to do that," Sherlock moaned. "I still have four more classes today anyway."

"Four just today?" John asked. "Wait, and didn't you already go to a class this morning? How many classes are you taking?"

"Ten."

"Ten?" John exclaimed, dumbfounded. "I'm only taking five and I feel like my brain might burst."

"That's because you're an idiot."

John's eyebrow quirked up and he frowned, but otherwise he was used to these statements and didn't respond.

"Don't they have a limit on the number of units you can take?"

"Of course. I got around that."

John didn't ask how. He knew he didn't actually want to know by now.

"Okay, well, if you actually shut up and let me get some real studying done, I'll be ready by the time you want to leave tonight."

"Good."

"But you're sure it can't wait until tomorrow?" John added.

"Positive. Goldman's only going to be at this pub tonight."

"We're catching him in a pub? That's _very_ inconspicuous," John said dryly.

"No, we're following him when he leaves the pub. I can't figure out where he's been hiding, because his house is empty every time I check."

"Something you don't know. How refreshing," said John. Sherlock glared and John added, "Though I do want to catch him and all."

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in!" John knew to yell before Sherlock was able to say "Go away".

The door opened and their sub-warden walked in. Sherlock liked the guy well enough. Well, more, he didn't hate him like most other people.

"Oh, Greg, hey," said John. "What brings you here?"

Sherlock looked over to John. "What did you just call him?"

John looked at him confusedly. "Greg?"

"I thought your name was Lestrade," Sherlock demanded of the sub-warden.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I do have a first name, you know." When Sherlock didn't reply, Lestrade added, "I only came because someone was complaining about you two coming back to the dorm at three o'clock a few days ago laughing so loud it woke them up. It's not the first complaint I've had about you two either."

John and Sherlock looked to each other and couldn't help but laugh again at the thought that they had woken someone up. That, being three days ago, was the last time they went out for a case, one they had finished in just two days. The Goldman thing, the one Sherlock was hoping to solve tonight, had been going for two weeks now, but Sherlock had hit several dead ends that made it so that they only had gone out for it once or twice. Sherlock had started getting antsy without being able to go out and work on a case two days ago, but was trying to hide it from John.

"Considering what we were talking about, they must think we're _really_ strange now," John said between chuckles.

"Yes, he said that you were talking about a serial killer," Lestrade added.

"It was a good film," Sherlock said, so smoothly and quickly that Sherlock could tell that John had to take a moment to remember that Sherlock was lying. It was one of his talents, lying perfectly. Well, 'perfect' might have been wrong, but near enough to perfect that only an expert could tell, or someone who knew Sherlock very well. Luckily, nobody knew him well.

"You went to the cinema in the middle of the night?" Lestrade asked skeptically. He didn't give them enough time to answer before he said, "Don't really care, actually, it's not my job to monitor your activities off campus, but could you not be so loud in the middle of the night? I only came because this wasn't the first complaint, I'm not trying to be your mum or anything."

"Sure thing, Greg," John said, still grinning from his previous giggle.

"But, also, I wanted to say something else," Lestrade added, stepping farther into the room so he could shut the door. Sherlock immediately became concerned, and from the smile that slipped off John's face, so did he.

"What is it?" asked John.

"I've only noticed that every time you two go out the whole night, another note lands on Scotland Yard's doorstep."

Sherlock was able to keep a straight face, of course, hardly bothering to look up like he usually would when Lestrade came in—and he knew Lestrade wasn't going to look around thoroughly enough to notice The Pile, because nobody did other than John—but he checked John's face to make sure he wasn't being obvious. John actually looked fairly innocent too. Enough to fool a moron like Lestrade, that is.

"You mean like The Notesman?" John asked with fake incredulity. "You're not seriously suggesting..." he trailed off with an easy smile as he gestured between himself and Sherlock. "Greg, we're eighteen years old. You think we could solve crimes for the police? Sherlock's clever enough, probably, but still..." A great strategy, Sherlock mused, making the person feel stupid for even suggesting it. He really didn't give John enough credit a lot of the time.

"Yeah," Lestrade said, already smiling like he realised his accusation had been ridiculous. "My old man is the Detective Inspector. I intend to follow in his footsteps someday. But anyway, he always tells me when a new one appears and I've started to catch a pattern… but it must be a coincidence."

"Must be," said John. "A weird, one, I'll admit," John added.

"Anyway, sorry to bother you," said Lestrade, opening the door back up. "See you both later."

Just then, Sherlock's worst nightmare walked by, stopping with a sneer.

"I heard you were coming to Westwood, Holmes," Anderson said in his nasally voice. "Oh, and Watson's your roommate. Is he driving you mad yet?" he added to John.

"No wonder Lestrade accused us of something so silly. Probably your mere presence in the building marred his brain momentarily," Sherlock replied, keeping his eyes on his work.

"Accused them of what?" Anderson asked in interest, ignoring Sherlock's slight.

"Oh, nothing, it was stupid," said Lestrade with his goofy grin.

"If these two are a potential danger to our dormitory, I'd like to know," insisted Anderson, but the oily smirk on his lips showed clearly that he just wanted something to make fun of Sherlock for.

"It's really none of your busi—" started Lestrade, but John interrupted him.

"It's okay, Greg. We don't care. Tell him." Another good one, thought Sherlock. Not being ashamed of the accusation implies a lack of guilt. Sherlock was actually quite impressed.

"I was just mentioning," Lestrade said, "that sometimes when these two come back late, it coincides with when The Notesman strikes."

_Strikes_, Sherlock thought exasperatedly. Like he's some sort of villain._ Just doing the Yard's bloody job for them, don't mind me._

Anderson huffed out a laugh. "These two? _Right_. Holmes is more likely to have put the bodies there himself and Watson's too stupid to have figured the crimes out, so—"

Sherlock couldn't quite explain it, but Anderson's words infuriated him. Sure, Sherlock called John stupid from time to time, because compared to him he was, but Anderson had no right to speak about John that way.

So before Anderson could finish his sentence, and before Sherlock could consciously realise he was doing it, Sherlock jumped up out of his chair, shoving past Lestrade and pressing Anderson against the wall in the hallway. "Don't you say a word against John, you hear me?"

He expected one of the other two to come bounding forward to stop him, and he _did_ hear John get off his bed and come to the door, but neither of them did or said anything otherwise.

"Fine, fine, sorry," Anderson muttered, already scared like the coward he was.

Sherlock let go. "Don't apologise to me. Apologise to John."

Sherlock turned and both Lestrade and John were looking at him with their eyes and mouths wide open.

"Sorry," Anderson murmured.

"It's—erm—it's alright," John said awkwardly, still gaping at Sherlock. He didn't spare a glance for Anderson as he slithered off, but Sherlock turned to sneer at him satisfactorily as he walked away.

"Well, I think that's my cue," Lestrade said after a moment. "Talk to you later." He walked away too, leaving just John staring at Sherlock.

Sherlock, becoming uncomfortable with it, walked past John and sat back at his desk, looking down at his homework again.

John shut the door after a moment.

Then, "What was that?" he asked.

"What did it look like?"

Sherlock knew John rolled his eyes without looking up to check. "Okay, I _know_ what you did, but why?"

"You know that too."

John exhaled out loud in irritation. "You were defending me, yeah. But _why_? You call me an idiot on a near-daily basis."

"Because everyone's an idiot compared to me," Sherlock snapped, "but Anderson can't call _you_ unintelligent, as he lowers the IQ of the entire school just by attending."

"So I'm stupid, but he's stupider," John summed up, sounding put off.

Sherlock looked up. "An adequate summary. But don't be insulted, really."

"Oh yeah, totally not insulted," he murmured, proving just the opposite from his tone of voice.

Sherlock sighed, trying to remember how to be sensitive to people's _feelings_. Then he said, "I didn't want him insulting you. You deserve better than that." And it really was true, Sherlock found after he said it.

That time John looked surprised at the response, and then smiled a little. "I think that's high praise, coming from you, so thanks."

Sherlock just shrugged and both of them got back to their work.

* * *

**For those of you that got to the fifth installment of this story, thanks again for reading. Hope you're enjoying. **

**Here's that annoying part I do where I politely request that you leave a review (I think that's seven, by the way). **


	6. Chapter 5: Umbrella Man

John was watching an episode of _Doctor Who_—John was supposed to be studying, yes, but he needed a break—when Sherlock stood up for the first time in hours.

"Class?" John asked, pausing on a particularly unattractive pause-shot of David Tennant that made John snicker for a moment and consider taking a photo with his mobile and sending it to Harry, who was religiously obsessed with the Tenth Doctor.

Instead, he was distracted by Sherlock swiftly taking John's laptop off his lap and setting it on his own lap, typing furiously.

"What are you doing?"

"I need to look something up," Sherlock said.

"But that's _my_ laptop."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Great deduction."

John grumbled for a moment. Why did he like Sherlock again? "_Why_ are you using mine, exactly?"

"Mine's in my bag."

John looked less than a metre away from Sherlock's chair, where sat Sherlock's laptop bag. The zip was even undone, the small silver computer sticking out the top.

"Right," John grunted, getting up and taking his computer back from Sherlock. Sherlock looked up, an insulted look on his face.

"I was using that!"

"And so was I!" John snapped. "And it's actually mine, if you didn't know, which means I think I stake a little more claim on it than you do!"

"But I was—"

"About to buy cigarettes online?" John finished, looking at the page Sherlock had open. "What, you smoke? You've never smelled like smoke before."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and dramatically pulled up his sleeve, showing a nicotine patch.

"So why are you buying cigarettes?"

"Because I need them."

"You don't," John said.

"I do," Sherlock insisted. "I only stopped because it's quite impossible to keep a smoking habit up in London, but now, at university, I should be more than capable."

"I think you're just bored because we haven't had a case to do in a few days and you'll be over needing the cigarettes tonight." John was inwardly surprised at his own deduction. He was obviously spending too much time with Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up at John, who was apparently also startled by what John had said. "No," Sherlock muttered petulantly, but John knew full-well he was lying.

"Whatever you say," John muttered, carrying his computer back to his bed. Then he looked closer to the screen. "Wait, were you using _my_ card to buy this?"

"Seeing as it's your name under the billing address, can't you answer that question for yourself?"

First John was going to tell Sherlock that he had no right to use his card, but then a more demanding thing came to his mind. "How did you know the card number?"

Sherlock only smirked and put on his long coat, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"Sherlock, we need to have a chat about boundaries," John said.

"I'll see you after my classes." He gathered up his messenger bag and slung it over his shoulder.

"I mean it about that talk," John said.

"Be ready to go when I arrive." And Sherlock was out the door.

John huffed a few times. Frustrating, insufferable man.

John tried to stay mad at Sherlock as he finished the episode of _Doctor Who_ he was watching, but he was never able to stay mad at Sherlock for long, even under normal circumstances, and this time John had the incident with Anderson to think about.

John wasn't dumb enough to say he knew Sherlock, but he was pretty positive that his actions with Anderson earlier that day were out of character. Sherlock didn't feel the need to defend himself when insulted, but when something was said about John…

Maybe John was overthinking it. Probably he was. But John liked to delude himself into thinking that Sherlock might actually care about him. That he thought John was worth defending. Maybe it was silly, but John sat there thinking about it for a long while before there was a knock at the door.

It was either one of his teammates or Greg coming back, John figured, so he called, "The door's open!"

The door did open, but the person standing there was a stranger. He was in a nice suit and was rather pudgy, but still somehow had a thin, gaunt face that donned a scowl. He couldn't have been older than thirty, and probably was nearer twenty-five, but somehow he gave off a feel of being older than that. Strangely, he had an umbrella clasped in his hand, even though it hadn't rained in days and he cyan sky gave no promise for it now.

"Erm… hello?" John said uncomfortably. "Are you with the school?"

"No," the man said, extreme pompousness somehow shoved into the word.

John waited for the man to explain further, but when he didn't, John added, "Then who are you?"

"Where is Sherlock Holmes?"

John sat up and shut his laptop, immediately wary from the man's tone. "Why do you want to know?"

The man gave a small, humourless smile. "How quaint, being protective of him. Quite loyal, aren't you?"

"No, I just don't know who you are," John said icily, standing up and puffing himself up to be as big as possible. Unfortunately, this man was quite tall, so it didn't help much.

"No, I suppose you don't. Well, I am only concerned for him. You see, I had the privilege today of reading one of The Notesman letters, and I immediately thought of Sherlock. It rather sounded like him, especially considering some variant of the word 'obvious' was used three times." John would have found that statement funny, had it not been some creepy stranger saying it.

"Not sure what your point is," John said steadily.

The man gave another smile. "Of course you don't. But just tell Sherlock to keep in mind that the police are looking for The Notesman. They don't find him quite as heroic as the people of London, but a device to embarrass them. I'm sure that's part of Sherlock's plan, of course. Saving lives couldn't be his ultimate goal."

"You're again assuming it's him at all," said John, "when you obviously have no actual proof, just an inkling."

"Right," the man replied. "I can see I won't get a peep out of you. But, even if you won't admit it to me, tell Sherlock to watch his back."

John had to try not to scowl. Was this man threatening Sherlock? Well Mr Umbrella was going to have to get through John first.

John spent a moment being internally surprised that he felt so protective of Sherlock, but of course he did. Sherlock was kind of a part of every aspect of his life now. His closest friend at school, or maybe anywhere, even if Sherlock Holmes being your only friend was a bit pathetic.

"Is that all then?" John said, clearly showing the man he wasn't welcome.

The man twitched an eyebrow up, playing with his umbrella while he spoke. "I don't understand why you're being this way about him. It's as if you're his friend."

"So what if I am?"

Umbrella Man gave a greasy smile. "Sherlock doesn't have friends. In that way, he and I are very similar." He paused. "You know, I could be helpful to you, John Watson."

"How do you know my name?"

"All I would need is a little favour from you."

"Which probably isn't as little as you make it sound."

Umbrella Man glared while pretending to smile still. "Just let me know what Sherlock gets up to."

"And why would you care about what a university student does with his time?"

"You aren't fooling either of us pretending Sherlock Holmes is just your average student."

John set his jaw, taking another step forward.

"Well the answer's no, so if you wouldn't mind getting out, that'd be nice."

"Fine, fine, Mr Watson, have it your way. But if you change your mind… well, Sherlock can give you the number. If you could just tell him I stopped by, and the warning that I know his little Notesman secret…"

"And who should I tell him said all this?"

The man thought for a moment, then said in amusement, "Tell him it was the most dangerous man you've ever met. That's how he refers to me. He's so dramatic."

"Well good thing you're above all that," John replied with a smile.

Umbrella Man smiled dryly once more before walking out, swinging his umbrella as he shut the door, leaving John feeling worried and wishing Sherlock would just come home already.

* * *

When Sherlock finally did come home, it wasn't soon enough. But still, John didn't want to sound desperate either, so he waited to mention it until Sherlock noticed something was wrong, which he would, eventually.

"Are you finished studying?" Sherlock said the moment he walked in.

"It'll have to do, I suppose, since you aren't going to let me get out of this."

"Good. Are you still cross with me?" he added in a bored, mocking voice.

John rolled his eyes. "No, I'm not."

And then came the moment John knew would come. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he looked John up and down for barely a second. "Something's happened. What's wrong?"

"The most dangerous man I've ever met, armed with a very lethal umbrella, paid a visit," John said lightly. Surely Sherlock saw through the fake calm, but it made him feel better to try anyway.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed further and his upper lip twitched. "Ah," he said, sounding nonchalant despite the look on his face. "What did he want?"

"To say that he knows you're The Notesman and to ask me to spy on you."

"Typical," Sherlock muttered. "Did you at least take the money?" he added.

"Of course not! Why would I spy on you for a stranger?"

"For the money," Sherlock said. "We could have split it. Maybe you should phone him later. Surely he said to get the number from me." When John only looked at Sherlock incredulously as a response, Sherlock added, "But no matter."

"No matter?"

"No, he's not my problem currently. Right now, the only thing that matters is catching Goldman. You ready?"

John was going to say something else about Umbrella Man, for example asking who the man _actually was_, but then let it go and nodded.

"Then let's go," Sherlock said.

And, as Sherlock more than likely guessed would happen, John had totally forgotten about that talk about boundaries.

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**Hopefully, I'll find a way to add Molly and Sergeant Donovan into the story soon... I plan to.**

**Anywho, please review! (Again, for request number eight!) **


	7. Chapter 6: Desirability

**Someone mentioned in a review that I'm getting my chapters out with "unbelievable speed" and they liked it.**

**Well I'm glad you do, because I am _addicted_ to writing this story. My boyfriend's actually a little peeved at me because I'm spending more time writing this than talking to him. XD**

* * *

Sherlock was admittedly distracted as they inconspicuously sat in the corner of the pub that Goldman was occupying with one of his drug dealer friends—because Sherlock had easily seen that was Goldman's motive for killing the people he did, because they hadn't paid up for their drugs. The police hadn't figured out it was Goldman yet because the man was married, had three kids, and was the principal of a primary school, and they apparently thought that made him exempt from being like every other human (the three D's, except adding on "destructive" and "deficient" as a fourth and fifth). Boring, Sherlock had to say. Why didn't people ever become murderers for something interesting?

But, thinking about all of those D's brought him back to the subject that was really distracting him, the one that had been for a month now.

John Hamish Watson.

Sherlock inexplicably could never get his roommate out of his head. His D's were completely unlike anyone he'd ever met. Different. Dedicated. Delightful. Desirable.

_Wait, no, wrong word_, Sherlock thought hastily.

But obviously the word had gone through his own head, and Sherlock knew better than to deny his own thoughts, as they were most often right.

Sherlock really didn't know what to think about anything in his life anymore, which was to say the least an uncomfortable sensation. He'd never been attracted to another person in his whole life, not people he knew or celebrities—not that he paid enough attention to celebrities to know many of them, but he had admittedly expanded his knowledge on such things through living with John and being forced to watch his favourite films in exchange for John allowing one non-hazardous experiment to be done on him—but he was attracted to John. He could admit that silently in his own head, even if the thought of saying it aloud made him want to curl into a ball and never speak again. He knew he was.

When Sherlock had figured that out, he examined John's handwriting thoroughly, but unfortunately John was in the 40% of men whose sexual orientation could not be determined by their writing—at least not by Sherlock's current methods.

But so what if John was capable of being interested in him? Sherlock didn't want or need a relationship. It was a waste of time and a waste of his brain.

And, deep, _deep_ in the recesses of his mind, there was the fact that he was scared—yes, _scared_—that John, even if he could like a man, would never have the capacity to like _Sherlock_. Sherlock considered for the first time in his life (because he had no reason to think about it before) that he might not be deserving of someone's affections, especially a person like John.

Maybe, if he were an adult, he could ignore the feelings and he and John could be friends without any problem. But it was his damn hormones. He often pretended he didn't have them, that he was just born without libido, but that wasn't true. Actually, he'd convinced himself it _was_ true until he met John. But sometimes, he found himself having these… desires. He had dreamt on several occasions of pressing John up against the wall, exploring his body with his hands… Sherlock had hardly known what to do when he woke up and the junk between his legs had started actually _doing_ the functions that they taught in health class. In theory, he had understood what an erection was, but it was still startling to actually have one for the first time.

And disconcerting, because everything in his body was itching, itching _desperately_, for something he hardly understood and knew he couldn't have, _thought_ he shouldn't want…

And maybe a little embarrassing too, since the average bloke had their first in primary school.

Sherlock had almost—but not completely—forgotten where he was. He shook his head and looked away from the salt shaker that his eyes had chosen for a point-of-interest to zone out on and looked up to John, who was actually watching Sherlock intently.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked pointedly.

John looked down and picked at his jumper for a moment, then met Sherlock's eyes again. In the dim room, John's hair caught the lights perfectly, making it look like gold instead of sand. His eyes were catching the light too, deep blue like the sky right after sunset, when blackness hasn't quite taken hold. Or maybe right before the sunrise. That seemed more like John to Sherlock, the one that brought the sunrise with them.

John gave a small smile, one that made Sherlock feel oddly like he was melting inside. "You know, Sherlock, I've watched you think a lot. Sometimes you don't talk for days because you're thinking so much. But I've never seen you zone out like that." Sherlock tilted his head slightly, curious for John to continue. John saw this and kept speaking. "I don't really know how to explain it, but usually when you think, your eyes are so distant it's like you're in another universe, completely unlike when other people think. But you looked so… ordinary. Like you were thinking something anyone might think."

Sherlock tried not to scowl at anyone calling him ordinary. He quite enjoyed being different from other people. But instead of saying something scathing like he might to somebody else, he asked, "So what was I thinking about then?"

John let out a laugh. "God if I know what goes through your head, Sherlock. I don't think I want to know what you were thinking."

"No, probably not," said Sherlock quietly, glancing away from John.

"Oh, and now you're breaking eye contact awkwardly too," John said. "Careful, Sherlock, or you might get normal by the end of the week."

And that was exactly what Sherlock feared.

And, even worse, when Sherlock looked back up to John, he could tell that John knew that was exactly what Sherlock was thinking. He saw the fear in Sherlock's face at the thought of his growing normality.

When had John learned to understand Sherlock? Sherlock had hoped he was in general enigmatic, but John seemed to have started to unravel him, started to notice Sherlock's little quirks and mannerisms and what they meant.

Speaking of which… "So with the cigarettes earlier, how you said that I only wanted them because I didn't have a case. Why did you think that?"

John looked a little puzzled. "You're still thinking about that? I didn't think your attention span was that long on unimportant conversations like that."

"Answer the question," Sherlock demanded.

Sherlock watched as John considered snapping at Sherlock for being bossy, but then decided against it and said, "You always are looking for distractions when we haven't had a case for more than a day. It's when you want to do experiments on me, or when you decide you need to buy something. So I figured smoking was probably on that list too."

Sherlock found himself smiling, despite the fact that being read like that made him so uncomfortable. "Your deduction skills are getting better."

"Are you admitting that I'm not stupid?" John asked with a smile.

"Of course not," Sherlock replied, "only that your brain does in fact function on at least an average level."

"Aw, how sweet," John said dryly, rolling his eyes and smiling. Sherlock unintentionally smiled too—

And then something happened that Sherlock didn't understand. The eye-contact between he and John became suddenly intense, and both of their smiles were replaced with dreamy expressions as they gazed at each other, both unable to look away from each other. Sherlock felt like his breath wasn't coming naturally anymore and John's ears had gone red from embarrassment.

From the films and programmes he had unwillingly watched with John, he knew exactly what kind of moment they had, and it really scared him.

Then John's focus shifted and he hissed quickly, "Sherlock, Goldman's on the move."

Sherlock glanced over without moving and saw that Goldman was indeed standing up. He was off-balance from the alcohol in his system.

Sherlock only needed a second to gather his wits, and then he said, "Wait until he's almost out the door, and then we move."

The rest of the plan he had discussed with John on the way to the pub, so John didn't have to ask anything more.

They waited for Goldman to saunter to the door, and then they shared one last, significant glance, John's eyes clearly saying, "We're going to talk about what just happened later."

And somehow, the thought of discussing his feelings with John was much more daunting than following a serial killer to his lair.

* * *

**Thanks for reading so far! Hope you enjoy it.**

**You know what to do. Review. Pretty please. See, there's nine, so now you have to. Nine's a good number. Nine will be how many episodes of Sherlock there will be when they're finished with series three. **


	8. Chapter 7: According to Plan

John and Sherlock were slyly following Goldman—who, just their luck, was walking home instead of taking a cab, making him easier to tail—but the man was unbelievably drunk. He was singing to himself loudly and horribly, making all attempts at stealth completely unnecessary.

"How on earth has this guy kept from being caught all this time?" John hissed to Sherlock. "He's not exactly bright."

"Because Scotland Yard's a bunch of idiots," Sherlock replied, "thus why we do their job for them."

John smiled at Sherlock's use of 'we', especially since he expected Sherlock to take all the credit. Admitting John had helped was a bit unlike Sherlock.

And John would have liked to say that was the only reason he liked the sound of 'we' off of Sherlock's tongue… but that wasn't all of it.

Which brought John's mind back to what had happened at the pub. Maybe Sherlock didn't notice it, with his social retardation, but John certainly did. Then again, though—maybe John was imagining it, he didn't know—Sherlock seemed to react to it, if only a little. Even someone like Sherlock might have trouble not noticing it… There was this moment between them… he didn't know how to describe it.

No, he knew exactly how, actually, but that was what freaked him out. Because it was, without a doubt, the most passionate, romantic moment John had experienced in ages. Possibly more charged than with any woman he'd ever dated.

But John was straight. He'd dated lots of girls, and he certainly had never had feelings for a bloke before. But with Sherlock… everything was different with Sherlock. Sherlock made him feel alive and made him happier than he'd been in years—actually, he didn't want to seem melodramatic, but maybe happier than he'd ever been before. Not that John had a clue why, seeing as Sherlock was mean and inconsiderate and arrogant and clueless in his own way… but John saw through all that to the amazing man that was beneath.

John looked up out of the corner of his eye at Sherlock, who looked pensive and broody as usual. John marveled at what could be going through that brilliant head of his. And also what was going through his mind at the pub, when John was sure Sherlock was thinking about something different than usual. Because Sherlock would sometimes smile a little, as if he was musing on something he was fond of. And once or twice, maybe without meaning to, he'd glance up at John. Was it possible, even a little, that Sherlock had been thinking about John? John wasn't sure what was going on with the two of them, but he did know that Sherlock thinking about him with a smile on his face made his gut twist up with anxious excitement.

John was still looking up at Sherlock as he thought these things, looking at those defined cheekbones, the perfectly sculpted lips that were completely unlike any other mouth in existence, the pale eyes he could just barely see that looked mint green in this light, hooded by the brows that had a thoughtful crease between them as his eyes flicked quickly all around him as he pondered, seeing everything and nothing at the same time. Sherlock really was rather beautiful.

John shut his eyes tight and shook his head. Had he actually just thought that? He'd only had one drink. Sure, he didn't know what was happening with Sherlock at the moment, but being confused about his feelings and saying the guy was beautiful were completely different things. He was going completely mental, that much was obvious.

The question was whether or not he minded going mad if that meant he got Sherlock in the process.

When he looked up again, Sherlock was looking at him in that penetrating way. John feared Sherlock would know exactly what he was thinking, but before Sherlock could ask anything, Goldman stopped walking twenty metres ahead of them, then turned right. It was just the type of completely unoccupied street that Sherlock had said he was hoping they would pass.

"You remember the plan?" whispered Sherlock.

"How could I not? You told me fifteen times," John hissed back.

"You never know with average people."

John rolled his eyes. He was already starting to question his own taste.

The plan went exactly as… well, planned. The street was vacant, as Sherlock hoped it would be. John went forward, and as a distraction, said that he'd been referenced to Goldman by a friend and wanted some crystal. During this distraction, Sherlock prepared the chloroform cloth that he was going to place over Goldman's mouth from behind. And then he was able to do it, not even giving Goldman time to call out.

"Brilliant," John said. "Just brilliant."

Sherlock looked up, his eyes glowing the way they did when John praised him, but his mouth still a serious line like always.

The next phase was to get a tied up Goldman in a rubbish bin. Yes, it sounded stupid and insane, but oddly enough, nobody questioned two blokes walking around with a bin rolling in front of them. You'd really think they would, but nobody gave them a second glance.

They got to New Scotland Yard and Sherlock and John worked on getting Goldman, who was rather heavy, out of the bin and onto the front porch. Then Sherlock got out his note and, as they had joked about several times, shoved it between Goldman's teeth.

John knew this was a serious occasion, illegally tying up a serial killer on the doorstep of the Metro Police, but he was trying really hard to keep from laughing at the whole damn thing. A month ago, John was just a bloke who played rugby and was too dumb to be a Bio major. Now, he fought crime with a high-functioning sociopath and broke the law on Scotland Yard's doorstep.

Sherlock and John started walking away, and both of them were trying not to laugh now. John could tell Sherlock was elated by his first real catch. Everything was going perfectly.

That is until Sherlock suddenly perked up and shoved John and himself into the alleyway at their left. John was all too aware of the fact that Sherlock had him pressed firmly against the wall, close enough that he could feel Sherlock's breath on his face.

"What?" John asked. Sherlock's face was just above John's, his eyes intense.

Sherlock, in response, only put his finger over John's lips to tell him to be silent. John complied—with an annoying nervous twisting in his stomach from the finger resting on his lips, mind you—looking away from Sherlock just to break the intense eye-contact and straining to hear whatever Sherlock already had.

Then someone called, "Young man, come out where I can see you."

The two boys looked at each other. John was feeling petrified, but the stony blankness in Sherlock's eyes, the complete lack of fear, worked to calm him slightly.

"Young _man_," Sherlock breathed. "Not young _men_. He only saw one of us."

"So what?" John asked, not understanding what Sherlock was getting at.

"So stay here and I'll go out."

John was shocked. Sherlock wanted to take the blame alone? Why would he do that?

"No way. I'm not abandoning you," John said vehemently.

Sherlock barely gave a smile. "I appreciate your loyalty, but I mean it. Stay here."

"Sherlock, you can't just—"

"I won't say it again! Come out!" called the officer. They could both hear footsteps coming this way.

"Got to go," Sherlock murmured. Then Sherlock really surprised John, more than ever before. Sherlock lurched forward and placed a short, chaste kiss on John's cheek. John was paralyzed with shock, frozen into a face with wide eyes and mouth. "Stay here until the coast is clear, and then get back to the dorm. Wish me luck."

Then, while John was still unable to think, Sherlock went out into the sidewalk.

* * *

**I'd apologise for the suspense if I were sorry for it. Buut... I'm really not. XD And more than likely, the next chapter will be out within twenty-four hours, so you'll probably live.**

**Sooo, you know what happens next.**

**Please review. (10th)**


	9. Chapter 8: Scotland Yard

**This chapter is a little shorter than the rest, so I apologise in advance for that. The next should be good and long. =]**

* * *

Sherlock didn't allow himself to think about what he had just done to John to keep him from coming out after him. He knew the second he started thinking about it, he wouldn't be able to stop thinking about it, about what John might have thought about it, about how it made Sherlock himself feel like he was going to be sick and—

But no. He had to play his part very well or things would go terribly wrong.

In Sherlock's head, he both paid attention and didn't to the next few minutes. This happened to him sometimes. His body went on auto-pilot, his mind doing everything he needed to do without consciously deciding to. If he had to look back on the moments, he could recall them easily, but otherwise, he remembered very little between when the police man saw him outside and when he was sitting inside an interrogation room. He had admitted no guilt, insisted that he was just walking by. Nobody mentioned anything about him being with someone else, so he figured John was safe. Hopefully he wouldn't go noble and come in and confess that he was with Sherlock. That would ruin everything.

Sherlock was leaning back in his chair, trying as much as he could to look petulant and stupid. Then a man walked in. Sherlock kept from smirking as he realised it was the Detective Inspector. DI Lestrade, specifically. He and his son looked very much alike.

And, DI Lestrade obviously thought he was clever, which was exactly how Sherlock was going to fool him. Because with the way Sherlock was sitting, the look on his face, Lestrade Senior already had doubts, was thinking that a young, moron of a boy like this could never be The Notesman.

But he sat down anyway, looking Sherlock up and down. "So, Mr Holmes, you were seen at the scene of the crime."

Sherlock's mouth dropped open. "What crime?" he asked loudly, confusedly. His accent sounded different than usual, rougher. "I'm not allowed to walk around outside anymore, am I?"

"Don't act as if you don't know what I mean. You didn't see the man on the doorstep of Scotland Yard, tied up with a nice little note in his mouth?"

"A man... on the doorstep?" Sherlock asked, dumbfounded. Then he chuckled. "Why'd you leave a man on the doorstep?"

Lestrade was obviously losing faith in the fact that it could be Sherlock every moment, which was of course Sherlock's intention.

"_We_ didn't, but _somebody_ did."

Then Sherlock's eyes got all wide. "Wait, you think it was _me_? I was just walkin' home from the pub, sir, honest! I'm a student at Westwood! I—you think—" Sherlock pretended to start having a mild panic attack.

"Mr Holmes, calm down, please. It's only suspicious that you were out there just around the time it happened is all. Did you see anything?"

Sherlock wiped at the tears on his face and sniffed. "No, I really didn't see anything. I promise I didn't!"

Lestrade put a hand up to stop Sherlock's blabbering and nodded, standing up and leaving the room.

Sherlock continued to look worried and stupid for the benefit of the two-way mirror, which hid other officers waiting for Sherlock to do something suspicious.

Then Lestrade Senior walked back in and immediately Sherlock knew something had happened from the look on his face.

"You're free to go," he said. Nothing else. No more questions, when obviously there should have been more to ask.

Sherlock scowled. There was only one way Sherlock was being let go that easily.

_Mycroft_.

* * *

As Sherlock knew already, Mycroft was out in the lobby. Sherlock came up to him and both were allowed to leave without any comment.

As soon as they walked outside, Sherlock let the scared/relieved face slip off his face and turn to a scowl.

"Mycroft," Sherlock greeted coldly.

"You're as pleasant as ever. I just saved you from getting arrested and all you can show is contempt."

"You surely did it for your own reasons."

"My brother being in jail would reflect poorly on myself, of course."

"Of course," Sherlock repeated mockingly.

"You've still got a crocodile tear on your face," Mycroft added.

Sherlock hastily wiped at his face. "So is that all?"

"As long as you don't plan to thank me."

"I don't," Sherlock said.

"Then yes, that's all." Mycroft began to walk away, but then Sherlock stepped forward quickly again and took Mycroft's shoulder. He turned around, looking entertained, like he knew Sherlock would have more to say.

"Why did you come to see John today?" Sherlock asked. "You didn't just come to talk to me. You would have known when my classes were. You meant to go see him, obviously. Did you just want him to spy for you?"

"What else would I want from him?"

"I don't know, I'm sure you have a million ulterior motives for everything you do."

"Do you know how refreshing it is to hear you say you don't know something?"

Sherlock grunted irritably. "Goodnight, Mycroft."

"Goodnight, Sherlock. I have a feeling I will see you again soon." Mycroft's tone made Sherlock feel just a twinge of worry. What did Mycroft really want?

But since Sherlock was on his way back to the school, not having to worry about being arrested, John had gotten back into his mind. What had happened in the alley, and also back at the pub. And now he was going to have to talk to John, any moment now. Sherlock wondered whether he wouldn't rather be arrested.

But Sherlock was going to have to go back to John sometime, and wasting any time walking around wouldn't help his situation. Plus, John was probably worried sick about Sherlock. Probably he should have texted him or something, but he found himself too nervous to do so.

Nervous. Sherlock Holmes, _nervous_. Something really _was_ wrong with him.

So Sherlock walked with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his long coat, watching as steam rolled up from his mouth every time he breathed out. He considered buying cigarettes, but then thought of what John would say when he smelled like smoke and kept from doing it. Sherlock arrived at the dormitory, sitting in the lobby and staring out the dark window. It was going to snow soon.

He couldn't stall any longer. He had to go up.

Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath and entered the lift to get to him and John's dorm room.

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**Sorry the part about Sherlock getting interrogated is so short and has very little detail. I figured it wasn't really the point of my story, just an event I had to get through to get to the next important moment. **

**Thanks for reading and please review (11)!**


	10. Chapter 9: The Row

John couldn't sit down. He kept pacing back and forth across the room—trying to be careful, as not to trip over all the stuff Sherlock left strewn about.

Sherlock. Where was Sherlock?

Rotting in jail, probably. John shouldn't have let him go out alone. He didn't intend to, originally, but then… then Sherlock kissed him. Only on the cheek, but coming from Sherlock that was enough to daze him for a good minute. And that minute that John couldn't bring himself to move, Sherlock had already gone with the police man, for some reason sounding like some idiot hooligan (an important reason, probably).

But why had Sherlock done that? What had gotten into his head? He was scared and wanted support? He was afraid he'd never see John again? But Sherlock wasn't that sentimental. Then again, John couldn't think of any Sherlock-ish reason for him to kiss someone. So that meant the reason had to be un-Sherlock-ish.

John forced himself to sit down, but then his foot started tapping. He was restless, panicking. He should have barged in the doors and announced that he was Sherlock's accomplice. What kind of friend was he, leaving Sherlock to—

Then, miracle of a man as he was, Sherlock strode in the door.

John jumped up and only just kept himself from hugging his roommate. "Sherlock! You're okay!" He was grinning so wide he thought his face might split apart.

Sherlock's face, however, was carefully blank. "Of course I'm okay."

"But the police, they caught you in the act!"

"No, they caught me walking by while the act was happening," Sherlock amended, taking off his coat and scarf and hanging them over the corner of their bunk bed.

John was finally able to sit down without fidgeting. He felt now that he should have known Sherlock would get out of it. He was a genius, after all, and genius made many things possible that seem not to be usually. "But how did you convince them it wasn't you? How did you get out so fast?"

"I already was fabricating a decent story. Since they didn't know who they were dealing with, they figured I wasn't smart enough to be lying. And then Mycroft arrived and finished the deal," he added, saying the name as if it tasted bitter.

"Mycroft?" asked John.

"My brother," Sherlock said.

John blinked for a moment. "I didn't know you had a sibling." He tried to imagine Sherlock having a family at all and nothing came to mind. Sherlock at a table with a mother and a father and siblings? It seemed impossible.

"I'm not proud of it or anything," scoffed Sherlock. "But he works for the government, so he does deem useful sometimes. He's rather young to have so much power, but with a Holmes mind, it's not hard to get what you want quickly."

_Yeah, I can imagine_, John thought. _If this Mycroft guy is half as clever as Sherlock, he's a force to be reckoned with._

"You've met him," Sherlock added nonchalantly.

"I—I have?" John asked, confused, but then his mouth formed a small 'O' as he understood what Sherlock meant. The man had seemed familiar, but not in looks, in the way he carried himself. In his arrogance too. And that explained why he knew Sherlock at all. "You mean that man I met earlier was your _brother_?"

"Unfortunately."

"No wonder you've never mentioned him."

Sherlock smirked at the joke.

But now that John wasn't worried about Sherlock being imprisoned for eternity, what happened in the alleyway came back to him. "But Sherlock…" John murmured. "About… erm… about—"

But Sherlock interrupted him. "The kiss was in order to render you unable to function for a long enough time that I was able to reveal myself to the officer without you being able to follow."

John blinked, not expecting that response at all. "Wait, what?" John felt a sad, embarrassed twisting in his stomach. "So it was only a trick? A way to keep me from ruining your plan?" He had been silly enough to think it… well, meant something.

Sherlock said nothing for a moment, which John decided to take as a yes.

"You're unbelievable, Sherlock. Really, you are." John picked up his jacket.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"Going out. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Where're you sleeping?"

"Dunno. Someone from the team might let me kip on the end of their bed like a dog. Better than being in the same room as you."

Sherlock stayed silent as John put his jacket on and opened the door. But then John closed it again, looking back at Sherlock.

"Have you ever considered another person's feelings? Even once in your life?"

"Not until recently," Sherlock replied quietly, looking into John's eyes intensely.

"Well then you're rotten at it," John said, ready to go out the door again.

"You're right, I am."

The words stayed John's hand on the knob and he turned. "You're agreeing with me?"

"Yes, unlike when you asked if it was a trick. You never actually let me respond, you just assumed."

John rolled his eyes. "Then was I wrong?"

Sherlock was again silent.

"Exactly," John muttered, ready to leave for the third time.

"Did you want it to be real?"

This time John shut his eyes, wishing the question hadn't been asked.

He didn't turn to Sherlock when he said exasperatedly, "Come on, Sherlock."

"I'm serious, John."

"Why would I—" he started defensively.

"John," Sherlock said again, insistently. His tone of voice lured him into turning to Sherlock. And Sherlock's eyes, unlike usual, did not know the answer to his question before asking. There was sincere curiosity there, and a manic light that showed that Sherlock _really_ wanted to know. John could feel his mouth flapping open and closed wordlessly.

And the look in his eyes somehow coaxed words from John's mouth. "I—I don't know. Maybe."

"Maybe or yes?" Sherlock insisted.

"Why does it matter?"

"It just does," Sherlock said.

This time John was the one that was silent.

"Good," Sherlock said.

John was about to ask what Sherlock meant by that when Sherlock, for the second time that night, came forward and kissed his cheek. This time, without the rush of an officer waiting for them, it lingered. John felt that Sherlock was tense, his fingers squeezing John's arms hard.

Then Sherlock backed away and they looked at each other, wide-eyed. John found himself again stunned into silence. "I was telling the truth when I said that I did it to keep you from following me. But that doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it, and that doesn't mean it was selfish. I didn't want you getting into trouble for something I got you into in the first place."

John was able to compose himself more quickly this time. "You enjoyed it?"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth flicked up. "Of course, out of all that I said, _that's_ all you heard."

"Should I be thanking you for saving me from jail instead?"

"I never need thanking from you," Sherlock replied. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then John finally moved his hand away from the doorknob. "So you'll be sleeping here then?" Sherlock added, noticing even that miniscule movement.

John smiled. "Yes, I think I will."

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**Finally, the Johnlock you were waiting for? XD**

**Please review! (****12)**

**And just so you know, this next chapter coming up is going to be long and awesome. Just sayin'. So get excited. **


	11. Chapter 10: Jealousy

**This is my favourite chapter I've written so far. I love it so much. So I hope you like it!**

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Oh, how Sherlock wished to sleep.

He never thought he'd say that seriously, but really, he was exhausted.

He went days and days without sleep usually, but this was different. Usually, he didn't sleep because he had better things to do. He chose not to. And when he knew his body needed rest or it would start functioning on a lower calibre than he allowed, he would lie down and sleep would immediately come to him, and he would wake up when he needed to without an alarm, without feeling groggy, and he would get back to something that wasn't an utter waste of time.

But now, he felt tired and off all day long, like he suddenly needed to sleep as often as an _ordinary_ person, but then when he tried, he would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking too much. There was nothing wrong with thinking when it was productive. But Sherlock's thoughts as he sat with wide eyes in the dark were not productive. They were pondering something that could only be achieved with action.

Because Sherlock would only desperately think about how he needed to kiss John again.

It had only been on the cheek, but the sensation it brought Sherlock was like a drug, and he was having withdrawals. Sherlock had always had an addictive personality. With his first drag off a cigarette at fourteen, he knew he and the tarry smoke would be friends for the rest of his life.

John was the same. The first time he had erotic contact with him, just the lips against cheek and the hands clamped on shoulders, Sherlock knew he needed more.

But not like another person might need more. It wasn't how Sherlock felt that he loved so much, but how he made _John_ feel. Feeling John tense in nervousness, hearing his breath catch, his pulse accelerate, seeing his pupils dilate. Sherlock was in awe that he could cause that in another person. And he needed to again.

Sure, what he felt himself was pleasant enough. He'd had the dreams about John, after all, waking up hard in the middle of the night. It was a decent feeling. Enjoyable, even. But that was nothing compared to the raw sensuality, the astonishing ecstasy that Sherlock felt when he could cause the exact same reactions in John.

Ever since the kiss, which had been about two weeks ago, John had been busy. Rugby, study sessions, spending time with friends. He was out more because Sherlock had no cases lined up—cases were the only things that made John cancel his plans—because he and John agreed they had to take a break after almost being arrested. Sherlock thought it would be more suspicious, suddenly stopping, and would make Sherlock a suspect again in the eyes of Lestrade Senior, so he had solved simple cases on his own, reverting back to the note and being even more careful than before.

And it wasn't even making Sherlock too terribly antsy, having a quarter of the cases as before, because when John was around, he was suddenly all that Sherlock needed to feel occupied. He would just stare, and stare, and memorise everything about him over and over, and dream of what it would feel like to kiss him again. Touch him, touch him everywhere. How would John react to _that_? Just the thought brought a burning to Sherlock's groin. And sometimes John would notice, and he would feel the sexuality of it, and he would react to it physically just barely before continuing what he was doing, and it would both help and worsen Sherlock's need. Like if he just took one puff of a cigarette. It would ease the burning in his veins slightly, sure, but then just a little bit later, he would want a cigarette even more than before.

But, for various reasons, nothing had happened. Firstly that John was busy. Secondly that Sherlock's brain felt off, so he hadn't decided how exactly to initiate it again. Ask John if he was interested? _Tell_ John that Sherlock _knew_ he was interested—at least he had been two weeks back—and demand to know why John was staying out of the room so much? Just approach him and slam him into the wall, throw him onto the bed, growl that he needed John or he might just fall over dead from the fire in his skin?

And the last reason…

Sherlock was unbearably nervous. Wanting it and knowing how to do it were two completely different things. John had done it before. Well, he'd never _told_ Sherlock that, but it was obvious enough. How could Sherlock throw himself into a situation without knowing exactly how he was going to execute it? It was unprecedented for him.

But if he didn't have John soon, he really would spontaneously combust, so he had to think of something.

Sherlock was waiting for John to get back. He was out somewhere. Sherlock hadn't paid attention to where.

See? He should know that. He needed his John-fix to get his brain functioning again. It was the only way.

And, as if on cue, John walked through the door.

And Sherlock froze, his eyes wide.

John wasn't alone.

By his side was a girl. She was in one of Sherlock's classes, a general education maths class, and they sat next to each other. She always tried to talk to him and he tried desperately to ignore her. She was rather plain looking and usually wore jumpers fit for someone triple her age. He'd heard her say at some point that she was a Biology major, but he never imagined _she_ _knew_ _John_.

"Oh, Sherlock, hello," she said with an awkward smile—since everything she did was awkward—but it was pleasant enough, polite and genuinely happy to see him.

How revolting.

"Molly," he said with a nod of his head. Molly Hooper. Just the type of kind, innocent, relatively clever type of person that John could like. Sherlock would have to do something about her.

"John, you live with Sherlock?"

"You know him?" John asked.

"He's in one of my classes, yeah," she replied.

"What brings you here?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to keep the coldness from his voice.

She didn't seem to notice. "John and I are in the same Chemistry class and we have an exam tomorrow."

"And you decided to study here?"

"Is that a problem?" John asked. "I do live here too, after all."

Sherlock looked between the two of them warily. Sure, they were safely standing at no-contact distance from each other, and John didn't seem edgy or anything, or like he was trying to be particularly impressive, or any other things people did when they had feelings for someone, but that didn't mean something couldn't grow between them. She was obviously nervous about something, in just the way someone did when they fancied someone. It could be she liked John, even if she wasn't paying him much attention at the moment.

"Fine, you can," Sherlock sniffed irritably. "I'll just be going then."

John looked confused. "You're leaving?"

"I wouldn't want to disturb you and _Molly_," he grumped.

John's eyes widened in comprehension and he bit his lip, obviously to keep from laughing. "Molly, can you wait just a moment? I need to speak to Sherlock privately."

"Of course," she said.

"Feel free to take a seat anywhere there isn't anything dangerous," John said.

She gave an uncomfortable chuckle and John gestured for Sherlock to go out the door. Sherlock did so and John followed. He shut the door and looked up and down the corridor, apparently satisfied that it was deserted. As it was midday, many people had class at this time. They walked down to the end of the hall, so she couldn't hear them through the door.

"Sherlock, you've got to be joking," John said.

"What?" Sherlock snapped, playing dumb—which was stupid to do if you're Sherlock Holmes, but he didn't want to admit to what John had deduced.

"You're actually jealous. Jealous of Molly."

"Why did you bring her here?"

"To study."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, you didn't. You could study anywhere. You never study in our room. And suddenly you did. Were you hoping I would be out?"

"You're an idiot, you know that?" John said, still looking amused.

Sherlock ignored it. "Don't pretend there isn't something going on."

"There isn't," John interrupted, but Sherlock plowed on.

"She is clearly nervous, the way she keeps flattening her dress and her hair and glancing around. She's dressed nicer than usual. Trying to impress you."

"I assure you, you have it all wrong," John said.

"_Me_? _Wrong_? Please."

"This time, you are."

"She fancies you!"

"No, Sherlock, she doesn't," John insisted.

"But her reactions clearly show she's near someone she has feelings for—"

"Yeah, _you_!" he hissed, angry, but not wanting to yell so Molly wouldn't hear.

Sherlock's eyes popped wide open and he went silent.

"Finally, you shut up." Sherlock was still stunned quiet, so John continued. "She knew I was friends with you and told me that she really wanted a chance to talk to you outside of class because she liked you. I told her it was a bad idea, that there's no point in trying with you, but she insisted, and she was so sweet about it, so I told her I'd invite her back to the room so she could see you. I felt bad about it, because I figured you'd say something horrible, but I just couldn't say no to her. That's why we're here, and why she's nervous. She likes _you_."

Sherlock was still silent for another few seconds. Then, "I thought she didn't know I was your roommate," Sherlock said, irritatingly confused. Since when did he get confused?

"How you didn't notice we were lying, I have no idea," John said. "I thought you'd see it immediately."

Sherlock's mind must have been very off indeed, not to see it. Now that he looked back on it, it was obvious.

"But why you'd be jealous of her, I have no idea," John muttered, "seeing as I've been giving you all those signals and you've ignored them all. I thought you lost interest in me."

"Wait, what are you talking about?" Sherlock asked sharply. "I thought _you_ had lost interest."

"My god, you moronic genius," John marveled. "Didn't you see any of the signs? I was silently begging you to do something, because initiating with you could be potentially dangerous, but you apparently saw none of it. So much for the great Sherlock Holmes seeing all."

"Signs?"

John groaned. "Yes, Sherlock, the signs. The staring, the way I'd purposefully sit next to you, when I actually mentioned _out_ _loud_ that I went to the shop and bought condoms and lube." Sherlock was silent in his lack-of-comprehension. "Why do you think I winked at you yesterday, Sherlock?"

"Winked? That was a twitch."

"It was a _wink_, Sherlock! As in, 'get over here and let me shag you, you bloody idiot'!" John was a bit louder than he probably intended, but not loud enough that Molly could hear from inside their dorm room, Sherlock knew.

"So you don't like Molly?" Sherlock finally said.

"No, I don't. Not like that."

"And it's not just me that's been wanting to slam you against the wall and take you ten times a day for the past half a month?"

John shuddered slightly at the erotic words, making Sherlock have to bite back a groan of satisfaction. Sherlock sucked in his appearance, the immediate arousal that was almost tangibly around him. And Sherlock had done it with only his words. It was just delicious. "No, that's not just you," John said quietly. Sherlock smiled without meaning to, but John said, "But, we shouldn't."

Sherlock's happiness deflated. "We shouldn't?"

"I'd have jumped on you a while ago, but I knew I shouldn't yet."

Okay, _yet_. Yet wasn't a no. "Yet?" Sherlock asked. He didn't like not understanding what John was thinking.

"I've done flings before, but you're too important to me to just fuck. I want to do it right. Go on a date. You know. Normal things people who like each other do."

Sherlock didn't like the sound of it—but then again, he didn't like the sound of sex a month ago either, and _that_ had changed drastically since then.

"Okay," Sherlock agreed, carefully hiding how much the idea both repelled and frightened him. He'd give it a chance. For John. "We will."

"Good. Now I'm going to study with Molly and you're not going to be a prat. Got it?"

Sherlock huffed. "Fine."

"Not one mean word to her," John insisted.

"I won't."

"And _no_ _deductions_," he added in a low growl.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said again.

"Or I won't ever let you have me," he threatened, pressing closer to Sherlock. Sherlock could feel that John's pulse had heightened and it made Sherlock shiver with need, almost salivating considering the other things he could make John's body do.

And John was threatening—and he was serious too, that was obvious—that he would never let Sherlock get the chance to make John do all those things. That was real incentive.

Sherlock leaned forward, just to see the nervous huff that John gave when he did it, and breathed, "I won't." John apparently trusted the answer this time, because he nodded and they went back to the room.

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**Hope you enjoyed sex-addicted Sherlock, because I certainly do! **

**Please review! (13, which is my favourite number on my favourite chapter, so now you really have to!)**


	12. Chapter 11: Socialisation & Preparation

John somehow passed his midterms, Chemistry and Biology with flying colours, impressing Professors Gregson and Smith enough for them to mention it to him. He was ashamed that he called his mum after class that day, so excited about his fantastic marks that he immediately had to brag. He even did fairly well his exam in J's class (his professor that preferred to be called just J rather than a stuffy professor title), which he was worried about because Calculus was not his strong point.

John was relieved that busy midterm season was over, because that meant he had more time for the things he really wanted time for. You know, like rugby, and Sherlock, and going to parties, and Sherlock, and trying to get a job. Oh, and Sherlock.

John half ran back to the dorm in excitement after he got that last mark, thrilled. Everyone had thought he was too stupid for this major, but so far, he was doing great.

He came in through the door, leaving it open. Most of the people left the doors open, in order to be social when somebody walked by. It normally annoyed Sherlock, and he actually looked up with what looked like the intention of telling him to shut it, but then he was distracted by looking at John.

"Excited?"

John pounced onto his bed with a smile. "I suppose," he said, trying not to be annoying.

"Why?"

"You don't care," John assured Sherlock, not even feeling bitter while saying it.

"Good marks on those exams?" Sherlock assumed.

"Yeah," John admitted.

"And why do you think I don't care?"

"Because," came a female voice from the door, "I thought you weren't capable of caring."

"See, this is why you need to keep the door shut," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

John looked up to see the face that went with the voice. "Hey Sally," he said, pretending to be moderately happy to see her. She was always fine to him, but she was mean to Sherlock, which meant John didn't like her much. And, as an addition, Anderson was at her side. John was starting to hate Anderson almost as much as Sherlock did. He was in several of John's classes, and he seemed to have all the bad qualities of Sherlock without a single one of the good ones. All the know-it-all with none of the brain, all the quirkiness with none of the interesting, all the cruelty with none of the soft-side.

"You know, there's room on my floor if you need to get away from him yet," she informed John.

"I'm quite fine living here, actually."

"How could you possibly—is that a jar of ears?"

Sherlock turned to the jar. "It's an experiment."

"But where did you get the ears?" Anderson asked in alarm.

"Probably you don't want to know," said Greg matter-of-factly, who just came into the doorframe too. It was getting rather busy in this area, suddenly. "How are you, John, Sherlock?" Greg asked, maybe just to look nice compared to Sally and Anderson, but John appreciated it. Probably, Sherlock didn't even care that the others were being mean to him, but John cared.

"Pretty good," John said. Sherlock said nothing, so John added, "And Sherlock's also fine. Right?"

Sherlock looked up in a bored way. "Is this the part where I pretend to be social for your sake?"

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock."

And Sherlock, maybe because he was in a good mood or something, startled everyone by looking over to them with a somewhat pleasant smile and said (in a slightly mocking voice, sure, but still) enthusiastically, "I'm doing great, Lestrade, how are you? Having a nice day?"

Everyone seemed too shocked to speak. Sherlock had been properly social, even if he was doing so sarcastically. "I'm—erm—I'm fine, thanks," Greg muttered.

Awkward silence. "Well, I have things to do," Sally said, walking away with Anderson slinking after him.

"Yeah, got to go," Greg agreed, and within just a moment, everyone was gone. Sherlock actually smiled now and stood up, shutting the door.

"Did you know they would react that way?" John asked, smiling without meaning to.

"I know everything."

"No you don't," John replied with a grin.

Sherlock quirked a brow, but said nothing. He walked over to John and sat next to him on the bed, which made John immediately wonder with anxious excitement what Sherlock was thinking.

There was probably no point in trying to hide a thing from Sherlock, but he still leaned back on the bed nonchalantly and said, "Do you need something?"

John swore he saw Sherlock's eyes flick up and down his whole body, which made John tense involuntarily. The moment he did, Sherlock's mouth quirked into a smirk.

"We're going to dinner," Sherlock said.

"We are?" John asked in surprise.

"Yes. So get ready."

"Get ready? What, do I need to dress up?"

"Isn't that what people do for dates?"

John had known that was what Sherlock was implying, but hearing him actually say it out loud made him more excited. "I suppose…" John muttered. "Are you going to dress up then?" John added, completely joking.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

John blinked. "You are?"

"I already did," Sherlock said, taking off his coat and scarf. John immediately knew what Sherlock meant when the scarf was off, because now he could see Sherlock's shirt.

The purple one. John loved that damn shirt. He'd never actually told Sherlock that before, but of course he knew.

Then Sherlock stripped off his suit jacket too, so he was just wearing his regular black trousers and that damn shirt.

"You're going to go out just like that?" John asked. Sherlock never left the room without all his layers. He hardly even sat around in the room without at least his jacket on.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, an amused glint in his eye. "Problem?"

"Course not," John muttered. "I'll be changing too then."

Sherlock smiled. "Then do so. We have a reservation."

"We do?" John asked, confused. "How'd you know I wasn't busy?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You still ask that question?"

"It's probably stupid, but yeah, I'm curious."

"Because I know your schedule by now."

"On a Friday? I could have a party I was invited to."

"You wouldn't go if you knew I had other plans."

John raised a brow. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "Now get changed."

John knew Sherlock was right, but he didn't need to be right out loud all the time, did he? But nonetheless, Sherlock focused on his desk while John got ready.

He tried to remember what his mother used to say in high school when he got ready for dates. She always told him to wear blue. He was never quite sure why, but he trusted her judgment and put on the dark-blue dress shirt his mum always preferred on him. Other than that, he stayed with his jeans… but he did change one last thing. He made sure Sherlock wasn't watching and did it quickly.

He put on his red pants.

Just in case.

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**Oh, the red pants. I had to bring them into this. I couldn't resist.**

**The 14th review request, which is halfway past crazy as fuck, comes now. Hopefully you find insane endearing rather than obnoxious.**

**Please review!**


	13. Chapter 12: Un-Deletion

"Okay, Sherlock, ready."

Sherlock turned and knew that John was trying to play dirty the same way he was with that shirt of his. It made his eyes bluer, that was obvious to anyone…

But what John probably didn't know was that it also contrasted with his skin so that each flush of his cheeks, the ones Sherlock craved so much, would be more obvious once they happened—and they were bound to, considering Sherlock's plans.

Sherlock was itching with need, but he was giving the date a chance. The thought of the emotional commitment made him uncomfortable, but at this point, he couldn't avoid this type of commitment, no matter how distracting it was to his work. At this point, a separation from John was even more distracting than John himself. Sherlock found his mind completely divided, an entire fifty percent focused on John at all times.

And just to put that in perspective, if Sherlock were in a life or death situation involving everyone in the entire school possibly being in horrible danger, he would probably give it about thirty-seven percent of his attention.

That was how addicted Sherlock was to John.

So obviously, Sherlock was past the point of emotional attachment. But _romantic_ attachment… that was still in question. And still a bit petrifying. As much as something could be for Sherlock Holmes, that is.

But Sherlock tried to bury those worries away for the time being. He had enough control over his mind still that he was able to. Then he and John left the dorm, luckily running into no more of the idiots that lived there. They were walking down the street, and John was silent.

Then he finally asked, "Where're we going?"

"There," Sherlock replied, pointing to the restaurant ahead of them.

John looked up at Sherlock. "That looks expensive," he decided.

"That doesn't really matter, seeing as you're not paying."

Technically the truth. It implied Sherlock _was_ paying, but that wasn't actually the case. Sherlock had stooped to the level of calling Mycroft three times in the past few weeks, just to say hello, in order to get away with getting Mycroft to pay for the ticket of a nice dinner. Mycroft had said Sherlock would owe him eventually. Sherlock shuddered to know what his brother wanted from him, but he was desperate enough that he agreed anyway.

"Holmes," said Sherlock when they got to the concierge, and he looked startled and maybe a little frightened. Apparently Mycroft frequented this poor establishment, the way the employees paled at the mention of his name.

As soon as they sat, John ordered just a water to drink, even though Sherlock told him to get whatever he wanted. Wasn't that the way dates worked? You weren't supposed to feel bad about the price. Sherlock didn't care what he had, so he stuck with water too. The waiter glared. They always were weary of the people who just got water. Figured they were cheap.

Sherlock and John went through the process of ordering quietly, both translating to each other silently that they didn't want to start talking when a waiter might still return and interrupt them. So it was when their food finally came—Sherlock convinced John to get the steak he wanted and Sherlock just ordered the first thing he saw, not caring much about what food he consumed—that they both knew the conversation was coming.

"Why today?" John asked when the waiter was gone.

Sherlock didn't want to say the real answer—which was 'I don't know'—so he changed the subject completely instead, the way he often did.

"Earlier when you were excited about your marks, and I asked about it, you said I didn't care. Why did you say that?"

John looked surprised at the question, and his shock kept him from insisting on the answer to his previous question, which was what Sherlock intended. "Because you don't care about ordinary things like that."

Oh, that was so like people. Underestimating how much others care about them. Much of the time they were right, assuming people didn't care—especially if the person in question was Sherlock—but this time, John was very wrong. "It's to do with you, John. That makes it automatically of interest to me."

John met Sherlock's eyes. "Really?"

Sherlock nodded.

"I always figured I bored you."

Sherlock wanted to laugh at that, but he didn't. John was, in fact, one of the only people he ever met that _didn't_ bore him. "You don't bore me," Sherlock said honestly. "You never did."

And John looked down at his lap to hide his cheeks going pink, but still glanced up at Sherlock through his lashes, his eyes soft.

And Sherlock had to actually bite off a gasp, just barely keeping his face in control, at the sensation it gave him.

He knew causing John to squirm under the weight of his longing made him ecstatic. But seeing John like this, seeing John actually feel deep affection for Sherlock in a way that no other person he ever knew did… it was indescribable.

John's eyes, full of some caring, tender emotion, were all for Sherlock. He never in his life thought he could feel such a wonderful, satisfying feeling purely from another person's affection. It scared him a little, but like the cigarette and that kiss on the cheek, it was addictive. He needed more.

So Sherlock reached his hand across the table, resting it on top of John's hand. John looked up in surprise, but then gave a small smile and tilted his head, that look in his eyes getting more intense, even softer.

Sherlock absorbed the look with his eyes, feeling this warmth in his chest like he never had before. That feeling that he felt the first day he talked to John, the one that reminded him of his mother, except it was stronger, more penetrating than it ever had been with her, and it was somehow different.

Deleted words suddenly un-deleted themselves, coming back into his mind. When his mother would say, "All you really need to be happy is love, my dear Sherlock. Someday, you'll fall in love, and you'll know what's really important in life. Nothing else will matter the way it used to."

Sherlock felt stunned by the sudden words in his mind. Well, _in love_ seemed like an overstatement, but Sherlock could finally understand, to a point, when his old mum had meant.

"I never thought something like this could be possible with you," John said, his voice deliciously low and rough.

"I didn't think so either," Sherlock admitted. "I never thought I wanted something like this."

"I've changed your mind on something?" John asked with a smile.

"John… you've changed my mind on a lot of things. All the time. Everything's different since I met you."

"Are you just saying what you think I want to hear?" John asked with a playful grin.

"Since when do I ever say things just because someone else wants to hear them?" Sherlock enquired. "If anything, I say things just to bother people a lot of the time."

"That's true usually," said John, "but this time, you want something from me, and you're clever enough to know what I want to hear to get it."

Sherlock glanced over John's face. Apparently, the only thing better than John feeling desire or adoration for Sherlock was him feeling both at the same time. Because John was both looking affectionately at Sherlock, waiting expectantly for an answer that he knew wouldn't disappoint, but also with the hooded lids of his suggestive comment. Sherlock felt like he might actually float out of his seat.

"You're right, I am," Sherlock said. "But this time, I am going to get what I want through honesty."

"A novel concept," John joked. Then his gaze went sultry once more. "But you want me," he said.

Sherlock didn't see the point in lying, so he said nothing at all, just letting his eyes lick John all over, seeing everything his body was doing.

"Admit it," John said.

Sherlock shrugged.

Then John finally did something to set Sherlock over the top. He _did_ physically react that time, even though he tried desperately not to. Not that John could see most of it though, since the reaction was beneath the table.

John, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's, bit his lower lip, letting his teeth snag on it for a moment while he looked at Sherlock with one brow up.

_Oh, John Watson_, thought Sherlock devilishly. _Two can play at that game._

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**The smut is coming very soon. I think the chapter after next. I'm a little more excited to write it than I probably should be, actually.**

**Anywho, time for me to ask for you to review again. (15, a nice multiple of 5)**


	14. Chapter 13: The Great Game

John did it to drive Sherlock crazy. To make him admit the truth aloud. He knew it'd work, because it always worked on whoever he wanted to seduce.

It worked a little better on Sherlock than he suspected though, because Sherlock actually reacted to it, which was really saying something. John tried not to smile in triumph.

Sherlock leaned forward then, over the table, looking at John with fire behind his eyes. "You keep that up, and I might need to take you over this table right now."

John really flushed that time, and considered for the first time who would be giving and who would be taking in that type of situation. He always figured he would give, but Sherlock's statement certainly brought a burning to his abdomen, so he must have internally liked the idea of it. Maybe they'd trade sometimes? God, he needed to stop thinking about this, because now he was getting really hard and they were in public.

Sherlock was smirking like he wanted to grin from ear to ear but was holding it in.

"Do you get off on my embarrassment?" John asked.

"Embarrassment? No," Sherlock said. "Your arousal, very much so."

John considered this. "So the thing that turns you on… is me being turned on?"

Sherlock thought a moment, and then said, "Precisely."

"Which is why you like to do things, quite suddenly, that make me uncomfortable."

"You really catch on quickly for an average-minded fellow."

John chose to ignore that comment. It was just Sherlock.

Just then a waiter came back to take away the plates. He looked between them suspiciously, like he knew they weren't just platonic just by spending a half hour waiting on them. John really preferred lower-key places, even if the posh restaurant was a nice gesture on Sherlock's part. People were just so stuffy.

"Are you worried people are judging us?" asked Sherlock.

John turned his attention back to his roommate and shrugged.

"Because," Sherlock said with an evil smile on his face, "you react beautifully to my advances in such a crowded place. Even better than usual."

"I'm starting to think it's the humiliation you like," John said, not even bothered by the fact that it might be true.

Sherlock actually seemed to consider it this time. "Maybe," he finally said. "I don't know."

John looked up. "_You_ don't know?" he asked teasingly.

Sherlock smiled dryly. "I don't, unfortunately, know everything."

"I know you don't," said John, "but I didn't know that you knew that you don't."

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. "Want to leave?" he asked.

"What about the check?"

"Taken care of."

John was suspicious of what Sherlock meant by this, but didn't ask.

"Then sure, let's go."

"Though I really do like watching you here," Sherlock added.

It kept John from moving. What turned John on turned Sherlock on. If John honestly reacted the way Sherlock liked it in this place, then maybe he should stay.

It almost felt like a game. Who would cave and jump the other first? And, as Sherlock was less bothered by all the people, Sherlock would definitely cave first here.

So, to play the game, John stayed seated. "Do we need some dessert, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's brow quirked at his tone of voice. He didn't miss that John was being devious.

"If you'd like some, go on ahead."

"I want you to share with me," John insisted.

Sherlock's eyes flicked over John for a moment, obviously reading everything about him in that moment. John, like always, wondered what Sherlock had seen and what he thought of it.

"Dessert then," Sherlock decided. "You pick."

John looked at the desserts and thought, _what's the most sexual thing you can eat_?

He'd once, partially just because he as bored, researched what foods were aphrodisiacs. Many weren't desserts. Oysters, chilies, avocado. No, no, no. Then there were bananas, chocolate, strawberries—

There it was. A plate of assorted chocolate covered strawberries. That'd do perfectly. Simple, actually good—as opposed to some things on the menu at places like this.

The second John ordered it, he felt Sherlock's eyes on him, knowing exactly what was going on. John, while still speaking with the waiter, winked to Sherlock quickly. John saw Sherlock's smile and eye roll in his peripherals.

When the waiter left, Sherlock was looking amusedly at John. "What's the point of this, anyway? We both know we want the other. Why the game?"

John, even to risk sounding like Sherlock, replied, "I'm bored."

Sherlock apparently liked the answer, because he couldn't keep himself from grinning. "And what else?"

Of course Sherlock knew. He always knew. "Because I want to prove I'm better at this than you are," John admitted.

Sherlock's eyebrow flicked up. "Really?"

"Yes. I'm the one with the experience."

"You don't know I don't have experience."

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock being defensive. "Yes I do."

Sherlock looked to the table. "Lucky guess."

John laughed. "No, it was actually a deduction," he said.

Sherlock leaned forward. "You deducing. I find that quite sexy."

"I know."

Sherlock's eyes rolled once more. "This is ridiculous."

"But you want to play," John replied.

His smile returned. "Of course."

* * *

Twenty-two minutes later, both boys had efficiently driven each other completely insane. From small gestures, like more winking and lip nibbling, to more obvious things like reaching for the other beneath the table, a foot or a hand on anything he could reach.

Well, on John's end. Sherlock was much less likely to do something physical. He did once or twice, but he more just spoke, and he already had this erotic voice, so when the words turned sexual too, who could deny him?

They were both flustered. Well, John couldn't see himself, but if Sherlock's ever-pale cheeks were flushed and his eyes were wild and his hands were fidgety, like all they could think about was touching John, and then John had to look even worse than that.

That was confirmed when the waiter came back one last time. The look on his face clearly showed he knew what was going on, at least to a point, and he didn't like it.

John was past the point of caring.

"Shall we go now then?" Sherlock asked. His voice was rougher than usual, only making it even more attractive.

"Everyone will see my hard-on if I get up right now," John muttered.

"Who cares?" Sherlock whispered. John took a moment to notice how very un-Sherlock-like his roommate appeared right now. Suddenly he was very much like any other teenaged boy, with one thing on the brain that was overshadowing everything else. You could see it in Sherlock's eyes as he scanned over every inch of John every few seconds, as if thinking something might change if he neglected to look at all of him.

They both grinned and John threw down his napkin with finality and got up. He really was going to explode if he waited much longer anyway.

The walk home was enough to calm him a bit, because it was cold out. John was in the in-between point where he wasn't quite hard anymore, but he could be with barely half a touch.

They went up the lift, giving each other sidelong glances while inside, using every ounce of their self-control to keep off of each other, and then the door opened and John was glad he kept himself off of Sherlock because there was Greg. He grinned when he saw them.

"Hey, mates!" he called, taking a bite of the sandwich in his hand.

John wasn't sure what to say, but Sherlock didn't give him time to think of anything.

"Lestrade, we are actually quite busy at the moment," he said. "We are not to be disturbed for the rest of the night."

Then he kept walking. Greg only looked half surprised, since Sherlock was always a dick like that, and then looked to John, waiting for the apology he usually gave and the small talk that would normally ensue afterwards.

But John glanced to Sherlock, who almost literally had fire in his eyes, and said, "Usually I'd say he's being rude, but we really are busy. Very important. You know, studying. Shouldn't be bothered for probably more like an entire twenty-four hours."

John kept walking, ignoring the look on Greg's face… like maybe he was guessing what had them 'busy' and what they might be 'studying'.

"Have fun then," he said. It wasn't completely suggestive, but it still made John wonder how obvious they had been recently.

Then he followed after Sherlock into their dorm room and shut the door.

* * *

**Woo, ready for smut? Good, because it's coming. And then some crazy plot stuff. You don't even understand how crazy shits 'bout to get. Watch out.**

**Please with a cherry on top review! (16)**


	15. Chapter 14: Name Calling

**Welcome to the beginning of the smut. I am nearly ashamed of how much fun this was to write.**

**Just as a teensy warning, this is a tad BDSM. Not that you ever wanted to know this much about me, but that is my personal preference sexually, and thus I usually write in this way. I'm trying not to get too intense though, for those out there that are made uncomfortable by it.**

**Anywho, enjoy! **

* * *

Sherlock immediately looked out the peep-hole of his door, waiting for Lestrade to get out of the area. He only half cared if he heard them at this point, really. Actually, he wasn't sure he cared at all. But John would, so he waited. It took an agonising sixteen and a half seconds for him to get back to his room.

Then he turned to John, who was looking up at him with an extremely mischievous look on his face.

Then Sherlock, with purposefully tormenting slowness, began to descend on John, walking forward so John was forced to walk back and he fell over onto his bed, his breathing accelerating. Sherlock could literally feel the tension, taste it in the air, and he was breathing it in like it was his dying breath.

And then he noticed when John sat up straighter, looking up at Sherlock with concern.

"What?" he snapped, but it sounded more desperate than rude, like 'god, not another interruption!'

"It's just…" John muttered. He was obviously uncomfortable and Sherlock took pity on him. Sherlock sat down next to him.

"Yes, John? Tell me what you're thinking."

"I've never done this before. With a boy, I mean."

"Well I've never done it at all," Sherlock replied. "So that doesn't matter much."

"Right," John muttered.

Sherlock sighed as all his insides throbbed. "What is it? There's obviously something else."

But now John just looked embarrassed. Okay, an admission he was uncomfortable saying out loud. Not reservations for what was about to happen, as far as Sherlock could tell (thankfully).

"Well…" John said, smiling uncomfortably. "Wow, I don't know how to say this without it sounding really awkward."

"I don't care if it's awkward. I don't notice awkward."

"True," John muttered. "Fine, then I'll just come out and say it. It's more of a warning…" He must have seen the impatience on Sherlock's face, because he said in a rush, "I just think you should know that I'm a bit rough."

Sherlock just barely kept himself from smiling. "Rough? How?"

John didn't notice that Sherlock was being sarcastic. "Like… I dunno… I have a tendency to almost-hurt people. Never _actually_ hurt them," he backtracked, "but I bite and slam into walls a lot…"

Sherlock knew that, were he an ordinary person, this would in fact be a bit awkward. But, being Sherlock, he just said, "Thank you for the warning, but I think I'm going to be just as rough as you."

John looked at Sherlock with an eyebrow up, the uneasiness gone from his face and replaced again with sensuality. "You sure about that?"

"Ninety three present positive," Sherlock replied.

"I'd love to test that theory," John said.

"Please do."

And Sherlock only had a moment's notice, from the animalistic look that suddenly entered John's eyes, before John stood and roughly pulled Sherlock to his feet, and then proceeded to slam him into the wall, rattling a few of Sherlock's things.

He didn't care one bit. If all his experiments were ruined, if all his test tubes were shattered and the mini-fridge was unplugged so his body parts thawed out and started decomposing, he just didn't care in the slightest. His brain, which was usually full to the brim with a million things all at once, was for the first time in his life on only one track, playing one word like a broken record.

John John John John John.

Feeling him, smelling him, tasting him, seeing every single inch of him and listening to the glorious noises that were escaping his throat.

Sherlock quickly found that John was telling the absolute truth about being a bit rough. He nipped not-so-gently at every part of Sherlock he could reach, gripped him hard with his hands to keep him exactly where he wanted him. Sherlock suspected John was even trying to be careful, but there was no way Sherlock would be unmarked tomorrow.

He loved it.

John continued to try to be careful, much to Sherlock's annoyance. So, to prove that he was capable of handling whatever John had to dish out, he shoved away from the wall as hard as he could—which only moved the dense, strong boy a little bit, but it was enough—just so that Sherlock could flip them over and now John was against the wall instead.

John's wide-eyed surprise got Sherlock excited and he pressed into John hard, doing everything John had been doing to him. Oh, he savoured the sounds John made now, the unwilling moans he made, the tiny gasps when the bites were harder than he expected, the whimpers, the sighed words. It was all delicious and Sherlock soaked it all up enthusiastically.

"God, Sherlock," John muttered with his eyes screwed shut.

Sherlock looked at John's face a moment, pausing for so short a time that John didn't even notice. But Sherlock was able to appreciate in that moment that John, for the first time that night, had moaned _Sherlock's_ _name_. While John lost control, gave into his primal instincts, felt pleasure like he obviously hadn't in a long time, it was _Sherlock's_ _name_ on his lips.

Sherlock, in that moment, made a new goal. He needed to count how many times John would say his name during all this. He had to catalogue the way it sounded every time, the level of desperation in his voice. He gave a tiny part of his mind the job of keeping track of how many times it was said.

When Sherlock was done with this, he continued what he was doing, even more enthusiastically than he had a moment before.

Then, as Sherlock bit on John's lip, a noise slipped out of his throat that he didn't intend. That surprised him, since everything else he was doing were things he had learned from John in the past few minutes, but this was apparently something all his own, since John had never done it.

He growled. Sounding more like animal than human.

It made John's eyes flash open in surprise for a moment, but then Sherlock knew that what he had accidentally done had been the best thing he could do, because John grinned evilly and started steering Sherlock towards the bed. He threw him down onto it, and then pounced on top of him and started pulling at the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, ripping it off and throwing it on the floor.

Sherlock liked the idea and rid John of his shirt too and was surprised at how much he enjoyed the sensation of John's skin sliding against his own, flaming hot with all the blood pumping as hard as it could through his body. Sherlock gripped at the hard muscles, letting his hands memorise every contour.

But Sherlock decided it had been far too long since John said his name. He'd have to move to the next step.

So he quickly flipped them both over so John was lying down on the bed and Sherlock was above him, and he went for John's belt, undoing it and whipping it out of his pants with a sharp _crack_. Sherlock catalogued in his brain that the sound of the belt had made John shiver with arousal. When he said 'rough', had he meant _that_ rough? He'd keep it in mind.

Then he undid John's zip and his breath caught in his throat. He actually paused for long enough that John was able to tell.

Red. They were red. Dear god, they were actually red.

It was like Sherlock was seeing John for the first time. Usually so reserved, kind, and now he was some animalistic sex-hound that wore red pants.

Sherlock couldn't even describe how much he really loved this new development in the tangled personality web that was John Watson.

This all happened in his head for maybe two seconds. It was enough time to look at the pants, and then meet John's amused eyes.

"You like them?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

"You devious, manipulative man," Sherlock said.

"Guilty," John said with a grin.

Sherlock wasted no more time on that and quickly tore John's trousers down his legs, and decided, because he enjoyed them so thoroughly, he'd keep the pants on for now and just grab out John's member so it hung over the elastic waistband.

Sherlock marveled at it for a moment, for seeing one in pictures and seeing it in person was totally different, and then, without further ado, put his mouth around John's cock and moved it in and out of his mouth.

"_Sherrr_lock…"

Sherlock looked up when John said it, removing his lips from his penis.

"Say that again," Sherlock demanded.

John looked at him with shock.

Sherlock let his tongue run up the shaft, causing John to whimper.

"Say it," he repeated.

This time John smiled. "Sherlock," he said, obviously trying not to make it sound like a moan and failing.

Sherlock growled with pleasure and went back to work.

* * *

**Ah man, I never get tired writing about these two. Part two of the smut is coming next...**

**Please review! (17, which is probably about the amount of times John has said 'Sherlock' by now.)**

**By the way, one reader told me that where I am stopping my chapters is evil, so I am posting both of these smut chapters together so you guys are all tricked into thinking I'm not a horrible, sadistic person (Muhahahahahaha). You can thank _Evi15_ for that one.**


	16. Chapter 15: Conquering Fear

**Part two of smut! You're welcome. **

* * *

Sherlock growled. Sherlock honest to god growls.

John was almost positive nothing in his life, past present or future, could ever be hotter than that.

Well, maybe other than what Sherlock was doing right now. John was hoping that the walls were really thick, because he was being louder than usual. In fact, he'd never made any noise at all during something like this. He was starting to feel like he'd never actually had sex before, because none of his experiences were ever like this.

And they weren't even having sex yet!

John was extremely impressed with Sherlock's skill. He was good at this the same way he was good with most everything else. John should've expected as much.

As much as John was enjoying what was happening, he needed his hands on Sherlock—just his fingers fisted in Sherlock's curly hair wasn't enough. He tugged on the hair in his hand, to get Sherlock's attention. He looked up, his pale blue eyes gleaming with excitement, and John just looked at him, because he knew that Sherlock would easily be able to tell what John wanted just by looking at him.

Sherlock smiled and took John's hand, pulling him into a sitting position, and kissed him.

In the middle of all the raw sexual desire, there was this moment that was actually romantic. John enjoyed that more than he expected. After the kiss, he pulled back, taking a moment to appreciate Sherlock, his amazingly pale skin almost glowing in the minimal light, his dark curls contrasting it brilliantly. Sherlock, for once, didn't look impatient. He was looking back at John, his eyes doing what they always did—seeing everything all at once by flicking quickly, never staying looking at one thing for longer than a moment—but it was only his face Sherlock was looking at.

"Afraid you might forget what I look like?" John joked, but his voice sounded like a hoarse whisper.

Sherlock smiled slowly, sweetly. John hardly knew Sherlock was capable of smiling that way until today. "I don't forget things often, so no," Sherlock said. "But I do really like to look at you."

John smiled. "When did you get sentimental?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Today, it seems."

John reached his hand up, resting it against the side of his face, attentively feeling that cheekbone of his. "Is it bothersome and distracting?" he asked.

Sherlock, John was thrilled to notice, had to take a moment to respond, shutting his eyes for a moment when John put his hand on his cheek, as if to feel it more clearly. With his eyes still shut, he replied in his silky baritone, "Distracting, certainly. But I actually don't mind much."

"So this isn't a one-time occurrence?"

Sherlock smiled and opened his eyes. "I hope not."

John leaned forward slowly, indulging in another slow, deep kiss. John's fingers tangled in those marvelous locks of his while his other arm wrapped tightly around Sherlock's thin waist, pressing them together. It could go almost all the way around.

Sherlock's hand was rested against John's chest when John nipped Sherlock's lower lip, causing Sherlock's hand to reflexively claw into John's skin. John smiled with an eyebrow up and the moment that, for a bit, had become romantic was abruptly sexual once more as John pushed Sherlock back into the headboard and, while kissing him, started to undo his trousers and yanked them off. Now they both sat together in just their pants, John red and Sherlock blue—John quite liked them, actually, because they felt like silk.

John and Sherlock met eyes one last time, and John saw in Sherlock's eyes what he knew was also in his own: fear. The point of no return. Though John had experience sexually, he and Sherlock were, for the most part, in the same boat. This was something new and it was intimidating. And even though John had experience in the sex department, this wasn't just sex. They were being completely open for each other, able to hide nothing. Both Sherlock and John were not used to being emotionally open with others, and John knew they were both scared.

Actually, he had a feeling Sherlock might even have been more so than him, because John was almost positive that being emotionally exposed was not just uncommon for him, but unheard of. So John looked Sherlock in the eyes, waiting for something saying this was okay.

And after a moment, Sherlock nodded infinitesimally, and that was enough for John. His self-control had been completely used up, so no more sentimental moments or last reservations were going to stop him now. Quickly, John hooked his fingers around Sherlock's pants and took them off, and a moment later John's were lost to the floor too. John pulled Sherlock in and invaded his mouth once more, relishing the feel of having all of Sherlock against him, no cloth between them.

John was burning by now, needing to be inside Sherlock. But he'd, embarrassingly enough, done research lately on the art of guy on guy sex. Specifically, the way to do it where it wasn't extremely painful for the one who was taking. He took a deep, steadying breath, finding himself nervous again, but he was an unstoppable force at this point, so he, with Sherlock watching him intently, reached down and grabbed his bottle of lube, ready to stretch Sherlock out, to prepare him for what was coming. First he put in just one finger, slowly. Sherlock hissed in a breath of surprise, and John raised a brow at him, silently asking him if he was okay.

"Keep going," he whispered.

John was surprised at the weak vulnerability in Sherlock's voice, but did as Sherlock said. First with the one finger, then two. Sherlock leaned his head back and his eyes closed. Then, after gently scissoring with the two fingers, he decided Sherlock was ready and sheathed himself in a condom and applied extra lube, just to be safe, because once John got going, he was unlikely to be very careful. Not that Sherlock seemed terribly concerned about John being careful, but he really didn't want to hurt the other boy.

And John began to ease himself in, as slow as he could manage. Sherlock's eyes shot wide open, and there was fear there in his eyes. Terror, even. He went paler than usual. John froze, amazing himself with being able to do so.

"Sherlock," John said, "I promise I won't ask again, but I really don't want to hurt you or make you uncomfortable. Are you okay?"

Sherlock visibly swallowed, but then he nodded. John lifted a disbelieving brow, but then Sherlock nodded more vigorously.

"Move," he said insistently.

John nodded and obliged, entering all the way. He groaned. Quickly, to John's relief, the panic in Sherlock's face started to dissipate and his cheeks turned pink with the heat of the situation. "God, Sherlock, you feel good."

Sherlock, his voice shaky and breathy, replied, "You aren't so bad yourself."

Then there was no more talking—well, coherent talking that was more than a word or two.

John moved in and out, slowly at first, but at Sherlock's first moan of, "John," he increased the speed, digging his fingers into Sherlock's legs. The tempo kept increasing mercilessly, and the bed was shaking and squeaking and really, John didn't give a fuck. They were at university. People had sex. It was just a fact of life.

Then John felt himself getting close, and Sherlock's hand was inching towards his own erection, hinting that he might be close too.

John, before Sherlock could touch himself, clamped his hand onto Sherlock, receiving a satisfying yelp of surprise and pleasure. John moved his hand at the same beat he was moving his hips, and Sherlock was gasping and his eyes were squeezed shut.

Then Sherlock gave an incomprehensible yell as he came, oozing onto his own chest, and with one final ram, John did too. "Sherlock," he sighed once more, and they both sat there, motionless, looking at each other. Sherlock, without moving his eyes from John, picked up a towel they had ready by the bed and wiped himself off. Then John collapsed onto the bed beside him, exhausted.

He looked over to Sherlock, who had lain down and was staring at the bunk above their heads.

"What are you thinking?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock looked over, and then turned so he was facing John. Without either of them seeming to initiate it, their hands clasped together between them.

"Mostly that I'm tired."

John knew that wasn't what he was really thinking, but after Sherlock opening up the way he just had, John figured he could wait to bombard him with any more questions. So he just nodded and shut his eyes. Sherlock moved a little, so he was closer to John, which made John smile. And then he fell asleep.

* * *

**And that ends our smutty smut for the time being. I may add more later, if people show interest, but this story is actually plot based, not sex based. Hahaha.**

**Anywho, pleeeeeease reviewwwww! (18)**

**As a side note, someone told me that they only review at the end of a story, and I understand that. If you're one of those, ignore these requests until the end. As long as I get one eventually, because I want to know what you guys think. **


	17. Chapter 16: Ordinary

**And now we have the after-sex fluff. My favourite. : ]**

* * *

Sherlock lay beside John, feeling oddly content. His brain felt as if it'd had its first cleaning in ages, like anything upsetting or confusing had been washed away and all that was left was overwhelming peace and calm. The broken record, the John record, was still playing, but as before it had been screaming frantically, now it was a pleasant whisper:

That warmness next to you?

That's John.

The wonderful scent next to you, like a field on a hot day and just a vague hint of the ocean?

That's John.

The deep, relaxed breaths that are quickly becoming the beat of your life?

John.

How you feel right now?

That's John too.

The reason everything in your world has been flipped over and you're actually happy about it?

_John_.

_Hamish_.

_Watson_.

Sherlock was staring at the bottom of his own bunk with John tucked into his side, sleeping soundly.

Sherlock was amazed at how much he loved being beside John, feeling his skin against his side, several degrees hotter. Sherlock glanced over to John and was surprised that his eyes were open.

He smiled. "Hey," he said, his voice soft and vulnerable in a way it usually wasn't.

Sherlock's lips flicked up accidentally. "Hello. Did you sleep well?"

John glanced at the clock. "It's only three in the morning, so no, maybe not. But I probably slept better than you," he added.

"Probably," Sherlock agreed.

"Did you sleep at all?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"So what's wrong?"

Sherlock looked over to John. "Wrong?"

"Usually, when other people can't sleep, it's because something's wrong."

"I'm not other people."

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, you try so hard to be mysterious and inhuman, but I know you have feelings in there. I saw them. So tell me what you're thinking."

"I don't think you'd keep up."

John pursed his lips exasperatedly. "Not everything in your head, Sherlock, just—oh, never mind," John grumbled, flopping around on the bed so he was facing the wall.

Sherlock considered leaving it there, letting John be mad. He'd get over it tomorrow.

But then this spat would be his last memory of the night was honestly better than any he'd ever had in his life. So he looked up at the bunk above his head again and said quietly, "It's not that something's wrong."

John glanced over his shoulder, and Sherlock couldn't see his face clearly while looking up, but John must have seen something in Sherlock's face, because he turned over again, resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Then what is it?"

"John, this isn't easy for me. Talking about how I… _feel_."

John gave a harsh chuckle. "You say the word 'feel' like it's dirty."

"It might as well be," Sherlock spat. "Emotions ruin people. They distract us from what's important."

Sherlock thought John would get angry. He usually did when Sherlock showed his lack of sentiment. But, instead, John said, "Then what's important, Sherlock?"

"The work," Sherlock said.

"So what about all this? Was that unimportant?"

Sherlock might have given a rude reply, had John sounded offended, but instead he sounded resigned… like John honestly believed that Sherlock thought it didn't matter and just wanted him to admit it out loud. That made Sherlock look over to John, feeling the sad surprise in his own face.

"You misunderstand me," Sherlock replied.

"Then make me understand. Because one minute you seem happy to be with me, and the next I'm just a distraction."

Sherlock sighed. When someone thought as much as he did, trying to convey what those thoughts were was amazingly difficult. At least, trying to do so without insulting everyone. He could think two completely contrasting things and have them both be true in his mind, but then out loud, nobody understands. That's why he stopped trying to make people get him, because he knew nobody ever could.

But at least John was willing to try, which was a first. So Sherlock could try too.

"I've always been comfortable in the fact that nobody liked me. It didn't matter, because I didn't like them either and I had better things to do than socialise with a bunch of idiots. But then I met you, and… after so long hating people because they all hate me, I cared about you immensely. Everything in my life that mattered suddenly didn't as much anymore, and in my head, it was all replaced by you. Everything in my life is changing so much, and I don't know if I'm ready for so much change. It…" Sherlock looked over to John, meeting his annoyingly sympathetic eyes, and finished, "It frightens me."

Sherlock was almost entertained by the look on John's face. It was sensitive and kind, like it always was. But he was also looking at Sherlock with his eyebrows slightly pulled together, obviously trying to deduce him.

"You know, Sherlock, that's not so odd. Maybe you aren't as misunderstood as you think."

Sherlock's lip curled at John's words.

"What, is it so bad to be like other people?" John asked, sounding amused.

"Other people are scornful."

John was quiet for a moment. "Is this really all just about the way people treat you? I never suspected it could be something so simple with you."

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course that's not what it is."

"But it is."

Sherlock knew that, if it were the middle of the day, and it were under normal circumstances, this would be the time that he would become cold and nonresponsive. But the warm feeling of John at his side was mirroring the warmth in his chest, and he found that all his carefully erected walls had crumbled down, at least for one night, and he couldn't lie to the soft eyed boy beside him.

"So I'm human," Sherlock sighed. "So I have feelings like everyone else. Is it that surprising?"

"A little, yeah," he said. "But more so that you're admitting it."

"I'll deny it all tomorrow," Sherlock said.

"Oh, I know you will. But the question is, are you going to deny _everything_ that happened tomorrow? Are things just going to go back to the way they were before?"

Sherlock turned his body and tentatively reached for John's face, smiling at John's flush. "How could things be the same after that?"

John bit his lip on a grin and shifted so his head was in the crook of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock, as if by instinct, wound his arms around John.

"This just feels so ordinary," John said.

"Are you disappointed?"

"No…" John said. "But if things are always this normal, I may get bored," he added teasingly.

"They won't be," Sherlock said. "I suspect you'll miss the normality of this moment just a few days from now."

There was a long silence. "Are you still thinking?" John asked.

"About how my life's flipped upside down and I don't even care? A little, yes."

"Well why don't you turn that brain off for an hour or so and get some rest?"

Sherlock groaned. "_Rest_. Rest is boring."

Sherlock could feel John's smile against his chest. "Now there's the Sherlock I know and love."

Sherlock's face backed away enough that he could look into John's eyes. "Love?" he asked with a smile.

John turned really red now. "It's a figure of speech."

Sherlock allowed John to return his head to its place on his chest.

"No it's not," he said. "You meant that."

"Like… you know, friendly love."

"Lying to me is really stupid, you know."

John said nothing, and continued to say nothing until his breathing slowed again and he had fallen asleep. Sherlock then did something he didn't normally do.

He followed someone's advice.

He cleared his mind as best as he could and, eventually, he fell asleep.

* * *

**I'm not sure if this chapter is up to par with my others. If not, I'm sorry. I hope not to disappoint all you lovely readers!**

**But anywho, I'd really appreciate reviews to know how I'm doing and what y'all want to see next! (19)**


	18. Chapter 17: Notes for The Notesman

**Aaaaand here comes more plot. We took a plot break, but now it's back. So get ready.**

* * *

John couldn't believe it when he woke up with his face against a cool, smooth chest, and he realised that he was next to a sleeping Sherlock. John had never been awake while Sherlock was sleeping. He was starting to think Sherlock didn't sleep at all. But there he was, looking strangely peaceful.

John also couldn't believe the events of the entire night. John and Sherlock had… John didn't know what to call it, because 'fucked' was all wrong. 'Had sex' sounded too technical. But 'made love'… John hesitated to say it was _that_.

But it was something, something more intense than John had ever experienced. He felt like, for the last twelve hours, his life had slowed down to a crawl, like every second was important and he loved it all. All that mattered was that silly, genius of a boy next to him, snoozing calmly.

Well, mostly. John quickly found that Sherlock didn't really sleep peacefully. He kept muttering things. Quite often, actually, like everything spiraling through that amazing head of his was whistling through his lips between breaths.

John just watched him, smiling a bit at the things that left Sherlock's mouth. Equations, quotes from literature, hums of musical notes, tons of things. He was like an encyclopedia of everything in his sleep. How he fit so much in his brain was beyond John.

But then Sherlock started murmuring something new, something that made John's eyes get big.

"John, I need you. You're more important than the work, I'm just afraid to tell you that."

John considered Sherlock was awake, just because it sounded so coherent, but so did everything else. Sherlock's mind was just so active when he was asleep. Plus, Sherlock really wouldn't have said that out loud, not usually.

"And I don't think you're an idiot. Not completely."

John smiled at that one.

"John…" he muttered, turning in his sleep and flopping his arm over John's waist. "You feel good next to me."

After that, he started listing the elements on the periodic table in order, but still, John decided he was going to need to lie next to sleeping Sherlock more often.

Then, Sherlock went silent, and that's when John knew he was waking up. And, sure enough, his eyes snapped open a moment later, not looking groggy at all.

"Morning," Sherlock said, leaning forward and lightly kissing him on the cheek.

John smiled. God, they were already like a couple. Though they weren't technically together… John had no fucking clue what they were, honestly. He'd figure it out sometime.

"You slept," John said.

"I did," Sherlock replied, sounding just a touch surprised to be saying it. He turned and looked at the clock. "Wow, it's eleven."

John looked at the clock, also surprised. "I never sleep in this late."

"Did I exhaust you?"

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock could be smug about absolutely anything. Instead of answering, he got up to get ready for his day.

But then he saw something.

"What're those?" John asked aloud as he pulled on trousers.

"What?" Sherlock asked absently from the bed, still not bothering to put on clothes.

John, instead of replying, walked over to the door. Right inside, there were two white folded pieces of paper. John picked them up and his eyes widened as he read them. So much for their nice, relaxing day. That was definitely ruined now.

"Sherlock, you need to look at this," John said urgently.

Sherlock stood immediately at his tone of voice.

They were two notes.

One said, "Hello, Notesman."

The second said, "Come and play. Three tries to get it right."

Sherlock was gaping at them, his eyes glowing. John was having half a panic attack and Sherlock was just excited to have been tossed a case. John rolled his eyes.

John quickly threw on a shirt and left the room. Sherlock didn't bother to ask, John figured because he already knew what John had in mind.

John went to Greg's door and knocked. He opened it quickly, embarrassingly only wearing a t-shirt and pants. John ignored it.

"Did you see anyone outside our room last night?" John asked. "Anyone in the corridor that wouldn't usually be there?"

Greg looked confused and wary at the same time. "No… why?"

"No reason," John said, making to go back to his room. He wasn't ignorant of the fact that Greg was looking at him with narrowed, searching eyes, but he had more things important to think about at the moment.

He went back to their room. "Greg didn't see anyone in the hall that shouldn't have been here."

Sherlock didn't respond, but John figured he heard him. He often didn't respond, but he could relay anything John said later usually. Sherlock was looking at the two letters in amusement.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked.

"Oh, he was clever," Sherlock chuckled.

"How do you know that?"

"Because of how completely unremarkable this is."

"What?"

Sherlock groaned at how slow John was being. "They didn't write it out, which would have told me a great deal about them, because handwriting is basically as different to each other as a finger print. They also didn't use letter clippings, because I would be able to tell what they got the clippings out of, and thus would know at least something about them, and for me that's more than a decent start. It was printed on completely generic paper with a very ordinary printer. And then there's this second one. The same ordinary paper, but they used a different printer. Still cheap and common, but definitely different."

John said, "Okay… so maybe they just used two different printers. Were at their house the first time, at a friend's the second."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't you see what they're doing? They're copying me!"

"They are?"

An impatient moan. "Come John, I know you're cleverer than this. Haven't you noticed that I use a different printer each time I type out one of my Notesman letters?"

John, finally, felt a bit of recognition. "Oh! _That's_ why you destroy printers all the time?"

Sherlock looked over at John with his eyes narrowed. "Why did you think I did it?"

"Because you were having a temper tantrum? I don't know."

Sherlock looked like he forced himself not to get irritated by the comment and said, "I use different printers so they can never guess where it got printed from. In fact, both printers used for these letters are brands I have used before."

"You can tell what brand of printer it is just by one note?"

"Obviously."

John's eyes rolled. "Okay, so you think the person is imitating you on purpose to prove he's clever."

"I'm positive of that. In trying not to tell me anything about himself, he actually has revealed part of his nature. He's obviously a _genius, _and he desires and audience for that genius. Partially, he wanted to keep his identity a secret. But he also wanted to see if I could see everything he was trying to show me, and to prove that I'm dealing with someone far above average." Sherlock had an indecent grin on his face. "Finally, something fun!"

John ignored Sherlock's insanity for the time being and said, "But what about 'come and play'? Why would he make it impossible to know who he is or where he printed this if he wants you to come to him? And he's giving you three tries to, what, guess who he is?"

Sherlock smiled wider. "He wants me to reply. It's a test. The more I deduced from the two letters, the more hints he'll give me. I have three letters before…"

"Before what?"

"That I don't know."

John swallowed down the uneasiness that made him feel. "But how will you respond?"

"The same way he gave it to me. I'll slip it under the door."

"You mean into the hallway? Anyone could pick it up."

"But this person is clever, _really_ clever, to have left this without anyone seeing. He'll be the one to get it."

"And then when he comes to get it, we'll see him," John said.

"Doubtful. He's smarter than that."

"How could he come get it without being noticed?"

Sherlock smiled again. "Those are two different things, John."

"_What_?" John asked again, getting frustrated.

"Not being seen is different than not being _noticed_. It's not that nobody will notice there's a person there, but nobody will truly see him, pay enough attention to know a thing about him. Obviously, he's a person that's allowed to wander about the school as they please."

"A student on the hall?"

"Doubtful."

"So an adult who can walk around wherever they want. That should narrow it down, shouldn't it?"

"It doesn't have to be an adult. I only meant it wasn't a student that lives in this hall. It could be anyone else, anyone else in the whole of England. The world."

Sherlock was so _dramatic_.

"Then what are you going to do?"

"The only thing I can do. Reply and wait for another letter."

* * *

**Hope you're liking where things are going.**

**Please let me know in a... wait for it... review. (19)**


	19. Chapter 18: Defense Mechanisms

**So I've got all this plot starting, but I really needed some fluff. So I made some. Woo.**

* * *

"Sherlock," John muttered.

Sherlock looked up. He hadn't realised John was there. Sherlock had to figure out exactly what to write in his first response. The more it seemed he knew, the more help he would get. Oh, what a beautiful game this was. A dangerous one, he was sure, but a game nonetheless, and a game of wits was one of the only things that could get Sherlock excited.

"Do you need something?" Sherlock asked.

John gave Sherlock a smile, ignoring Sherlock's long-suffering tone. John then took a seat on Sherlock's lap, causing Sherlock's mind to go curiously blank. The soundtrack started again, the John soundtrack that had been on pause for twenty-six hours now, ever since he saw those letters beneath the door.

"Yes, actually, I do," John said, a mischievous glint in his eye. Then he leaned forward and let his lips press against Sherlock's. Sherlock kissed back, reveling in the taste of John's mouth, in the smell of him so close, feeling the pulse that was suddenly pounding double-time in his neck—which Sherlock had gripped firmly just to feel for that beautiful quickened heartbeat.

John backed away after a second, but Sherlock felt like it'd been an hour. Sherlock's hand stayed on John's neck, but his thumb strayed up to John's jaw, running back and forth across it.

John grinned. "I want to go somewhere," he said.

"Then go somewhere."

John rolled his eyes. "With _you_, idiot. I want you to take a break."

Sherlock looked down at his blank document on his computer, which he had just completely deleted for the fourteenth time, deciding it was inadequate.

"But I have to finish this."

"And you will. But obviously, you need a break. If you were up to par, you'd be done with this by now."

Sherlock glared. "I'm not up to par?"

John sighed exasperatedly. "I only mean everyone needs a break, Sherlock."

"Not me."

"Oh, come on, for me?" John asked with an alluring smile.

Sherlock was irritated that John was managing to be so distracting. "Why would I do it for you?"

John's smile fell from his face. "Because I'm—we're—"

"We're what?"

John's jaw set in anger. Sherlock knew better than to flare his temper, but when he was busy like this, his filter turned off.

Annoyed, John stood from Sherlock's lap. "Fine. Stay here. But I'm going out. It's a Friday night, I want to do something." He went out the door, shutting it hard.

Before Sherlock could think much, his head popped back in. "Maybe I'll find someone really attractive to snog. Since apparently you and I are nothing. Maybe a boy, maybe a girl, I dunno. Anything could happen."

And the door shut again.

Two days ago, Sherlock would have let John go. He considered it now, for one one eighth of a second. But then, for the other seven eighths of the same second, he imagined John kissing someone else. Anyone else. His vision flashed red.

He was out the door so fast, John wasn't even a metre down the hall.

"John, I'm sorry."

"I'm glad you're sorry," John huffed, still walking.

"Please, I'll come with you. Just let me get my coat."

"I don't want you to come."

"_John_…"

Something, probably the desperation in Sherlock's voice, made John turn.

"I'm listening," John said, crossing his arms.

Sherlock turned, seeing several people in the hall, some of them with their attention on Sherlock and John's row.

"Do you want to do this out here? With all these people?"

"What, are you ashamed of me?"

Sherlock's mouth flapped for a moment. "Of course I'm not. But I actually figured you were the one ashamed of me."

This made the anger in John's face dissipate a little, replaced by confusion. "Why would you think that?" he asked, stepping closer.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's concern. He spoke quietly now, just in case people were listening. "You're well liked, I'm not. People don't care what my sexual orientation is, but I think people figure you're straight. You have more to lose than me by being open about this."

"Oh, so you admit something's here, then?" John enquired in a harsh whisper.

"Of course there is," Sherlock said, "We've already discussed there's something here. I only said that because I was frustrated you were distracting me. But…" Sherlock paused, looking at the ground. "Making you angry didn't used to bother me, but that time, I felt… felt…" Sherlock struggled with the word. "Remorse. For making you upset. Especially with a lie."

John looked up at Sherlock, doing that sympathy thing again. How did John manage to do that all the time? Wasn't it exhausting?

"Sherlock," he said, his voice tired, "I care about you a lot. But if you're going to shut me out like this all the time, this isn't going to work."

Sherlock was amazed then at a sudden physical pain in his chest at the thought of John deciding he didn't want to try this anymore and ending it. He blinked and rubbed his sternum, feeling out of breath from it.

"I can't change who I am," Sherlock said, realising only after he said it that he sounded a little sad.

"I'm not asking you to," John said, stepping closer again and lowering his voice more. "But you aren't actually an insensitive prick at heart. You only do it to block people out. All I ask is that you don't block me out. You don't need a defense mechanism with me. I'll never hurt you."

Sherlock's throat swelled at the words. God, when had he begun to care about people caring about him? But he did, and he couldn't lose John, not now that he was the only one that cared.

The only one he cared about enough to try to be different. "I don't know how to do this, John. Be open. You're going to have to teach me."

John smiled, placing his hand on Sherlock's cheek. "Okay. I will. But you have to let me in for me to do that."

Sherlock nodded. Anything to keep his John.

"Good," John said, letting his hand fall. "Now let's go out, okay? You can worry about writing later."

They both turned so Sherlock could get ready to go and were met by four people on the hall gaping at Sherlock and John. They'd obviously seen the whole thing. Sherlock saw their pathetic, rusty cogs slowly working in their heads, putting two and two together.

One of them was Lestrade. He was a bit quicker than the others.

"Hey, nothing to see here," he said gruffly. The rest of the people moved, going into their rooms or heading for the lift. Lestrade looked between Sherlock and John and stepped toward them. Sherlock saw that John was blushing.

Then Lestrade laughed. "You know, contrary to what you think, I'm not stupid. Don't act like I only just noticed something was going on."

Now even Sherlock felt just the slightest touch embarrassed.

"We—erm—" John was saying.

"Don't worry about it," Lestrade said. "I don't care. Just…" he added, looking a little uncomfortable himself. "I think some people heard you, the other day. I got a few comments. So maybe keep it down next time you… yeah…"

With that, there was a short, awkward silence before Lestrade walked away.

"Oh, god, they all heard us," John said.

"Probably," Sherlock agreed.

They both looked at each other for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

John, through chuckles, said, "Come on, let's get you ready." He grabbed Sherlock's hand and led them to their room.

"We're not actually going to a party, are we?" Sherlock asked distastefully.

"After your rotten behaviour a few minutes ago, we're going anywhere I bloody well want to."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine."

But John smiled. "It's okay. I'll make it worth your while."

This made Sherlock grin, one of the grins that felt unnatural when he did it because they were so infrequent, but still felt somewhat nice. "I'll hold you to that."

"I know you will."

* * *

**I just wanted to make you guys wait for the next round of mysterious letters, so you'll have one more fluffy chapter before we get to that. : ] because I'm EVIIILLLLL. **

**So anywho, you know what I say at this point by now. Maybe I should give you a break...**

**Nah, just kidding, please review! (20. That's just sad.)**


	20. Chapter 19: A Night On The Town

**I was going to make the next fluff be some other day, but then I decided that the night out mentioned in the last chapter would be a good thing to write about, so here you go!**

* * *

John watched as Sherlock tied his shoes, shrugged on his coat, and wrapped his scarf around his neck. He wondered whether he should still be mad at his roommate, for what he had said before, but decided that whether he still should be or not, he wasn't.

John was trying to think of where to take Sherlock. It was a Friday evening, so there were a lot of options, but John didn't actually want to torture Sherlock. He just wanted to do _something_ with him. Anything.

Sherlock was then ready to go, and John just smiled up at him.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

"I'm happy you decided to come with me," John said.

"You'd probably have more fun without me," Sherlock said.

John shook his head. "You still don't get it."

"Get what?"

"I don't know why I think you're so smart—"

"Get _what_?" Sherlock repeated irritably. He always got touchy when his intelligence was questioned.

"It's not about what we do, Sherlock. We could sit and play board games and I'd be happy because I'm doing it with _you_."

Sherlock pondered this. "How strange."

"Is it?" John retorted. "You would never go out and do this if it weren't with me."

"That's different," Sherlock said.

"No it isn't. I enjoy your company."

"_People_," Sherlock muttered. "Completely run by their emotions."

"Yeah, okay, Mr Spock. Can we go now?"

"I suppose," Sherlock replied.

They took the lift down—and might have had a nice little snog while they were at it, until it opened on the first floor and they were suddenly across the lift from each other.

They walked outside and it was lightly snowing. John didn't know where exactly they were going, but they just started to walk anyway. Sherlock didn't even impatiently ask where they were heading. He just walked silently by John's side.

And then, their peace was ruined by none other than Anderson and his constant sidekick, Sally Donovan.

John thought, when he noticed them, they might just walk on by, but it'd been a false assumption. Anderson looked at them and his eyes started glowing like Christmas had come early.

"Oh, if it isn't the happy couple," Anderson crooned.

Sherlock and John looked to each other, stopped walking in their surprise. John was pretty sure Anderson hadn't been in the hall when they had their little argument.

"Everybody knows," Anderson said in response to their confused faces. "That you two are faggots."

John tried to ignore him. Like he cared what _Anderson_ thought. He wouldn't stoop down to Anderson's level. And obviously Sherlock wasn't that angry, so he probably shouldn't be either, he figured.

"Sherlock, I get why you'd like John," Anderson continued. "He's a good bloke. But John, why would you ever like this guy? He hasn't even got a heart."

John probably wouldn't have argued with that one a week back, but now, he knew different. But Anderson didn't deserve any explanation about the truth of Sherlock's heart. He didn't deserve to know a thing about Sherlock. "As opposed to you, who has a huge one?" John asked dryly instead.

"Hey, I'm only saying this because I care. Get a new boyfriend."

"Or girlfriend," Sally added, winking.

Oh god, Sally had not just winked at him. He had to keep himself from hacking up his lunch.

"Honestly, you, gay, I'd never have guessed it," Anderson continued.

John just really wanted to hit him. All he wanted was to hit him. But somehow, Sherlock's complete calm made him feel like he shouldn't be mad, so he refrained from throwing fists.

"But really," Anderson added, looking to Sherlock, "You couldn't have found someone—"

And John had no idea what Anderson was going to point out as inadequate on John, and he never would now.

Because John had apparently guessed incorrectly that Sherlock didn't care about what Anderson was saying, because one moment he was just standing there, blank face like always, and then his fist flashed out and hit Anderson hard in the face. He fell over in just one hit, unconscious.

Sally screamed. "Psychopath!" she yelled, kneeling down by Anderson.

Just then, Greg and Molly appeared on the scene. Actually, John didn't know that they knew each other.

"What happened?" asked Greg, sounding only half interested.

"He was insulting John," Sherlock said tersely.

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Wow," he murmured, "I'll put that on the list of things never to do, then."

"You hit him, Sherlock?" Molly asked, surprised. "You, hitting someone. Didn't think you could get emotional enough for that."

John felt bad for Molly, because she was looking at Sherlock with those adoring eyes and Sherlock was just looking at John.

"So where are we going?" Sherlock asked him, not even gracing Molly with a response.

"Honestly, I was just walking. But now I'm feeling a bit peckish, how about you?

"Agreed. Chinese?"

"Sounds great."

Then Sherlock looked over to the other two people, and he did something John couldn't believe. "Would you two like to come?" he asked. He said it a little grudgingly, but it was an invitation.

John's mouth actually fell open.

"Oh…" Molly murmured. "Really?"

Sherlock nodded.

"We could," Molly said. "We're on our way to a party, but... What do you think, Greg?"

Greg looked between the two of them, obviously also surprised Sherlock had offered. Then he said, "Thanks for inviting us, but we've got to pick up Seb."

"Oh yeah," Molly muttered, "I forgot."

"Maybe another time," Greg said.

And the two of them walked away.

"Sherlock," John said in awe, "you just invited them somewhere."

"Obviously."

"But… you did it. _You_."

"I know it's what you'd have done."

"And you're trying to imitate me now?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock was quiet a moment. "Anderson did have a point, you know," he said.

John glanced over to Anderson, who was just starting to wake up. Apparently, nobody else other than Sally liked him either, because nobody seemed to be paying him any mind. "What point?" John asked.

"Why do I deserve someone like you?"

John, again, was shocked by what Sherlock was saying.

"What happened to you worshipping yourself?"

"I met someone worthier of worship than me."

John figured that was about the highest praise you could get from Sherlock Holmes.

"You worship me, then?"

"No, that'd be silly. But I do feel as if… I could _try_ to be more sociable. It wouldn't kill me, most likely."

"Dunno, it might," John joked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So, we were going to go for a Chinese takeaway, weren't we?"

"Yes," John agreed, taking Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock looked a little surprised, looking down at their interlocked fingers. "You don't mind the 'faggot' jokes?"

John sniggered. "No. Why would I? What, do you?"

Sherlock gave a deep chuckle. "People's opinions of me couldn't get much worse, could they?" he asked with a smile. "And even if I _did_ care, I think people like me more now that I've got you around. You make me less intimidating or something."

"Because I'm basically perfect enough to worship," John said seriously, biting on his lip to keep from grinning.

"John, I'm going to take that comment back."

"You wouldn't dare, I might smite you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and, hand and hand, they continued to walk down the street.

* * *

**Okay, so NOW the plot shall begin. I just needed my cute fluffiness. **

**So let me know what you think so far! (21)**


	21. Chapter 20: Two of Three

"I just need to go to J's office hours," John grumbled, breaking Sherlock out of his reverie. He was feeling impatient. The letter he had responded with, filled with every deduction he could make based on the two notes he had received, had disappeared a week ago. Ever since then, he'd been unable to sleep or eat or do anything at all, really. John had given up speaking to him a few days back. But the frustration in John's voice had been enough to make Sherlock's head go up and look to his roommate. He was laying on his stomach on his bed, staring angrily at a textbook with his fingers tugging his hair in irritation.

"J?" Sherlock asked.

John looked up, obviously extremely annoyed. "Oh, are you speaking now?" he snapped. Obviously just as cranky as Sherlock was feeling.

And Sherlock knew it was his fault, which made him feel a little bad. A little. "I've been thinking. I apologise for being rude. Now who is 'J'?"

John looked at Sherlock a moment, and then sighed, as if unable to stay angry, before looking at the book again and throwing his pencil down on his notebook in irritation. "My calculus professor," John said absently. "I don't understand this homework."

"J as in a name, or just the letter?"

"The letter."

"What professor goes by just a letter? What's the point?"

John looked up again, still too frustrated to deal with Sherlock's personality, apparently. "To be relatable, Sherlock, something _you_ wouldn't understand."

Sherlock, not insulted by the comment like John intended, just replied, "I don't need to relate to other people."

"Of course. You don't _need_ people," John said in a mocking voice, pissed off again.

"No," Sherlock agreed, "I just need one."

This made John look up to Sherlock and smile in the way that made the genius' heart swell. How he could turn John from frustrated to happy with just a sentence.

Sherlock, in the sentimental moment, stood and sat on the edge of the bed. John turned on his side, leaning his head against his hand. "I was starting to wonder if you were ever going to get out of that trance," John mentioned.

"I apologise," Sherlock said again, hating the feel of the words on his lips, but knowing they were necessary. "I wasn't meaning to ignore you."

John sighed. "It's alright. At least I got some homework done. I've been worrying over it too. You think the only reason he's taking so long is to freak us out?"

"That's a possibility I've considered. One of seventeen."

John rolled his eyes, about to speak. Then, suddenly, came a gasped, "Sherlock!"

Sherlock, who had been looking at his lap, knew what the exclamation meant without looking up or waiting for John to say something else. He immediately rushed over to the door, picking up the papers he had a feeling would arrive today.

There were three this time.

He must have done fairly well then, to get three clues.

"Tell me," John said quickly.

Sherlock opened the one on top and read it aloud for John's benefit. "There's a name nobody says."

"What?" John asked. "What's that even mean?"

Sherlock ignored him and opened the second, reading it to himself.

"Read that one too, Sherlock."

Sherlock considered disregarding him, but sometimes speaking aloud helped him to think, so he read this one too. "Every crime the Yard couldn't figure out, I was the answer. Every time your dear John asked how an idiot could get away with murder, I was the answer."

Before John could say anything to that, Sherlock opened the third and read it aloud without being asked. "To know me, you must know them."

"What the hell," John muttered. "So much for hints. None of those make any sense."

"To you," Sherlock retorted.

"You know?" John scoffed.

"Not yet, I only just read them. But give me a moment to think."

John rolled his eyes, but also didn't speak again, so Sherlock looked through the letters, reading them one more time so they were memorised, and then he continued to think about what they could mean.

* * *

The next time Sherlock looked up, it had been an hour. John said he had just gone to see his professor called J and he had helped him with his homework. Sherlock had only half heard it, as he was still thinking.

Then John spoke again. "What I don't get," John said, "is why he's giving you clues. What, does he want to be caught? I know he asked you to 'come and play', but that's really rather stupid, getting a teen genius on your tail."

"I think he doesn't think I can catch him, at least not yet."

"But when you can? Because if he keeps giving you hints, you'll figure him out. Two the first time, three the second. What'll you get next time?"

"Maybe he's bored," Sherlock said with a smile. Bored geniuses. It was just brilliant.

"But if you don't figure it out," John added. "If the three sets isn't enough and in your third response, you still can't say who he is or where to meet him. What will he do then?"

"I already told you, I don't know."

"But what if he hurts people?"

"That's a possibility."

"Then you need to figure this out, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked to John angrily. "You think I don't know that?"

John huffed. "I don't mean for your own ego, Sherlock! People's lives could be at stake!"

"My reason for figuring it out doesn't matter," Sherlock said. "Whether it's for my ego or for their safety, they'll be saved when I figure it out."

"But it _should_ be for them," John complained.

Sherlock ignored it and continued looking at the letters.

"Have you figured out _anything_ from those riddles?" John sassed.

"Of course," Sherlock scoffed. "This man—I'm assuming man, because it's statistically more likely in the criminal world—he helps people commit crimes. That's obvious. We caught the person who committed each crime, but not the one who organised them. So… _to know me, you must know them_…" he read absently, "his clue is to solve more crimes."

John looked exasperated. "And what will that do?"

"Someone knows who they're working for. Someone must. _There's a name nobody says_… but somebody will say it. If we try enough times."

"So… your solution is that we keep solving crimes and wait for someone to know something about the guy they've got helping them?"

"Precisely."

John obviously could think of nothing better, because he just nodded. "So you don't respond until you get a name."

"Exactly. He made us wait, so we make him wait. A week."

John nodded. "So we start now?"

"We start now."

* * *

**Alrighty guys, so if you can guess where to find the mysterious note-writer before Sherlock figures it out, then you can have a cookie/biscuit. I am hiding teensy clues in the story, but I don't know if they are obvious or not... We'll see.**

**Anywho, please review.**

**Pretty please, review. **

**Pleeease.**

**(I think that counted as two, not three, so 23)**

**Oh, and I am posting two chapters at once tonight because they're both done so why the hell not? So happy reading!**


	22. Chapter 21: What Nobody Says

**Second chapter of the night... this one's pretty long, so be ready...**

* * *

Sherlock had been picking up cases anywhere he could. He was doing even more cases than they were when he and John first met and started working together. They were on something new every twenty-four hours; oftentimes they had several cases a day. John hadn't slept in five days, had only stopped to eat granola bars and get a stray cuppa here and there to keep from passing out.

To say the very least, John was in a rotten mood.

"So, where's this guy we're looking for?" John complained. "You said he'd be here twenty minutes ago."

"All in good time."

"All in good—" John started to hiss furiously, but he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. It wasn't working.

"You get so cross when you're sleep deprived," said Sherlock calmly.

John glared at Sherlock, hoping it might burn a hole in his too-tight shirt or chip his cheekbone. "Yes, and you're just a barrel of laughs even when you _aren't_ sleep deprived."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "See, so touchy. You should train yourself to not need as much sleep like I do."

"Sherlock, most people don't _need_ to do that! If I'd just have gotten a _normal_ roommate, then I'd—"

"Be bored out of your skull."

John took another deep breath. He knew Sherlock pretty well by then, so he knew that even though the boy sounded nonchalant, John's comment had hurt his feelings. He didn't actually want to fight with Sherlock. "And out of a boyfriend," John added, reaching over and squeezing Sherlock's hand.

"Oh, is it 'boyfriend' now?" Sherlock asked. "I don't think we ever made it official."

John smiled. "I don't know," he replied. "But maybe now's not the time to figure it out."

"Agreed."

"But anyway," John added, "I'm sorry I've been so angry, I'm just tired and hungry."

"I know. Me too. But we need to figure out who this man is, no matter what the cost to our sanity is."

"Like you've got any to lose."

Sherlock smirked. "Probably true. But _you're_ dating me by choice, so who's really the mental one here?"

John gave a harsh chuckle. "You got me there."

Just then though, John felt Sherlock go absolutely still, which told John quite clearly that the person they'd been expecting had arrived. Sherlock knew that every Thursday for weeks now, this person had been stopping by this very wheelie bin to dispose of the evidence of each murder they had committed. Why this person murdered anyone, why they were disposing it here precisely, and how Sherlock even knew these things, were a mystery to John. He hadn't actually been explaining anything to John this week, just dragging him along on anything that required legwork or a grunt that could hit people for him. Another one of the things that was annoying John since they began this mad race to learn the name of the mystery man with the letters (whom Sherlock called The Copycat)—but at the same time, John wasn't sure he cared about the specifics. Even if Sherlock went to the trouble of explaining it, there was no way John would be able to follow the chain of logic, and it wouldn't help anything anyhow. So John tried not to complain about being left in the dark.

This was the part that got John's heart pounding, feeling so nervous, so _excited_, that he felt like he could run for miles. His favourite part of this week was that, instead of doing all their work from the sidelines, they had to question all of these criminals, interrogate them to try to learn The Copycat's name, or place of employment, or anything that helped at all. So far, nobody knew a thing. They all said the same thing, almost like it was a script given to them: He's a voice on the other side of a phone, never seen, never known, only heard. They'd say he's a genius too sometimes, but otherwise, nothing helpful. Just a clever man who owned a phone, who could be a whole lot of people. Well, Sherlock didn't think many people were clever, but that didn't count.

Anyway, the man was there, a short balding guy, kind of old. Not the type to be a serial killer, you'd think. But maybe that's why he needed help from The Copycat.

Sherlock and John were just ready to jump the guy when he looked over and gave them a smile.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I've been expecting you."

The boys blinked to each other. Sherlock, for once, looked genuinely shocked. John would've taken a picture, were he not completely dumbfounded himself.

"You're a bit younger than I expected, being The Notesman," the man continued. "It's you, right," he said, pointing to Sherlock. "I was told you were the tall one with the ridiculous cheekbones and the funny coat. That the other, blond and—what were his words—classically attractive, was his little sidekick."

Sherlock was silent for another beat before folding his hands behind his back and walking forward, his face blank once more. "And your name is Chester Wilkinson, and you've killed four people in the past four weeks, chopping up their bodies in the butcher shop you own and dumping the parts in this very skip."

The man grinned. "You _are_ good, aren't you? I was told you were."

"By who?" Sherlock asked coldly.

"But what else do you know?" asked Wilkinson, pointedly ignoring Sherlock's question.

"That you never even got a parking ticket, that you're married and have a child you adore, that you volunteer to feed the homeless several times a month, and there is absolutely no reason for you to be murdering anyone. I also know that the only connection that your victims have is that they have come to your butcher shop. Two were regulars, one had come once before, one was there for the first time. Two men, two women, anywhere between the ages of twenty and sixty. Which means that you had no pattern other than the people that happened to stroll into your shop on a Thursday near close."

Chester let out a barking laugh. "My god, you're really as good as he says! You know all that?"

"So who is this man you keep talking about?" Sherlock repeated, rage just barely filtering into his voice as he took another step forward.

Chester continued to grin. "He also said you're impatient and rather bad at chit chat. I suppose he was right about that too."

John could see the anger building under Sherlock's carefully constructed mask. "And how does he know so much about me?"

Another laugh. John's arms crossed subconsciously as he got frustrated with this guy's nonchalant attitude.

"Oh, he knows more about you than you could possibly imagine. About your family, about your friends… or _friend_, I suppose. Everywhere you ever lived, and probably set foot in or even considered entering. He knows about how you were bullied in primary school, and it used to bother you so much, and you only ever wanted to be normal, until your kindly mother was killed and you lost your will to be kind. He knows who killed your mother and why. He knows everything, Sherlock."

John was trying not to react to the things he was saying, but Sherlock used to be _kind_? His mother was murdered?

And when Wilkinson had said he knew who killed Sherlock's mother, Sherlock's fists had balled in fury. John would have to remember to file that away, to ask about it when the time was right.

But for now, Sherlock just gritted his teeth audibly, took a barely noticeable calming breath, and changed the subject. "But why, Chester, would you kill these people? You have no motive, no past of violence. You do, however, have a daughter you love just _so_ _dearly_. It must be to do with her."

Wilkinson nodded with a smirk. "You impress me, Sherlock, you do. Well, you're right. My daughter, she's about your age. She wanted so badly to go to school in California, but with my little family owned shop, I couldn't afford it. But then, this miracle of a man arrived, and he said he would give me the money I needed to send her to school, and a little extra to donate to my favourite charities, if I did him a favour."

"To kill people?" Sherlock enquired.

"To commit four murders and wait until Sherlock Holmes came to chat, and then all I had to do was talk to you."

Sherlock's beat of quiet was enough to tell John he was surprised again. "You were supposed to talk to me? It was a part of the plan?"

"Of course. The most important part, according to the boss."

Sherlock apparently knew not to ask who the boss was again so soon, because he said instead, "The one thing I don't know is what you do with the bodies after you put them in the bin."

"Hey, I only butcher the body into smaller sections and stick them in the skip at the time I'm told. Within an hour, the bin's empty, completely clean."

"And you don't know who takes them or what they do with them?"

"No idea. I was told not to ask."

Sherlock nodded, taking another step. John took one too, even though he wasn't sure if Sherlock was doing it deliberately or not. "So, you must know something about this boss of yours."

"Of course," replied Wilkinson.

"Then tell me what you know," Sherlock said.

"Or what?"

Then came John's favourite part of his favourite part. The part where he took the gun out of his jacket and pointed it to the criminal. He would never want to shoot someone—god, having taking a life hanging over his head? He couldn't even imagine the guilt he'd feel—but something about having that gun there in his hand, ready to protect Sherlock, to be helpful in Sherlock's cause, was exhilarating.

Usually, this was the part where the guys—and one woman—would say they didn't know a thing about the man they worked for, the thing about the voice on the other side of their mobile, but this time…

This time, Wilkinson laughed. Loud, hearty. Not forced.

"Is this funny?" asked John.

"You think that thing will make me tell you anything?"

"I assure you, this weapon is quite real," said Sherlock.

"Oh, I know it's real. I know a gun when I see one."

"Then what's so funny?" John repeated.

"That you think you can threaten me into telling you who my boss is. You could rip out all my teeth, and my fingernails, and break every bone in my body, and then dump some lemon juice on all my wounds and I would never tell you a word."

"Something like that could be arranged," said Sherlock quietly.

"Sherlock," John warned. He wasn't okay with _torture_. He'd definitely stop Sherlock before he got to _that_ point.

Before Sherlock could say anything, Chester continued, "Every person you ever questioned, they knew the name. And they knew who you were too."

"Then why didn't they tell the Yard about me?" Sherlock demanded. "Why wouldn't they tell them I'm the Notesman?"

"Because the boss said not to," replied Wilkinson.

"And his word means that much to you," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "_People_," he said exasperatedly, a curse he often muttered.

"I don't think you understand who you're dealing with, Mr Holmes. This man… he's hardly a man at all. So much more than that. To hear his voice is to have all your dreams come true, but to see his face is to shake hands with Death. He's the greatest of saints and the worst of sinners."

"You're quite the poet," John inserted, irritated… but still feeling a bit overwhelmed. Was this man, the one they called The Copycat, really this big of a deal? Were he and Sherlock truly underestimating him?

"The point is," said Wilkinson, "that you'll never hear his name out of anyone's mouth other than his own. He had me do all that I did just so I could tell you to stop trying."

"Four murders just to tell me that?" Sherlock said.

"That's the way he works. Rather dramatic that way. So put the gun away and go home."

"You're going to the Yard, Chester."

"Oh, I know that. I expect the note to be on their doorstep tomorrow. And I'll still be here, waiting. Because my boss is getting me out again as soon as he can."

"I don't doubt it," Sherlock said. "Well, thank you for your time," he added dryly, turning on his heel.

"Wait, that's it?" John demanded. "We're giving up?"

"Most certainly," Sherlock replied. He started to walk, so John shoved his gun back into his coat and followed. After a minute, Sherlock said, "I know when I'm beaten. I won't learn his name this way, or a single thing. He's instilled something worse than fear in these people. Loyalty. Impossible to break, especially when it's fueled by something like funding a loved one's schooling and giving to charity."

"So what do we do?"

"Respond with what we've learned so far."

"And then…"

"And then we hope that the last set of clues is enough."

"And if it isn't?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

* * *

**My oh my, I loved writing this chapter. That's why it's so long, I got a wee bit carried away. **

**Anywho, let me know what you think so far! (24)**


	23. Chapter 22: The Final Set

John was doing that thing again, where he looked at Sherlock with deep concern on his face. Sherlock didn't like it one bit, but he couldn't help but be openly worried, which was what was making John concerned in the first place. Apparently, not having control of how he was feeling did not only extend to John, but to all aspects of his life, because his near-panic about what was to come next was clear on his face.

_"Please_ tell me what's wrong," John begged for the millionth time.

Sherlock finally listened to him, deciding he needed to reply. "I'm quite anxious for the last set of letters," said Sherlock.

John came over to Sherlock, sitting on his lap the way he knew he liked. Sherlock's arms automatically wound around his waist, just for the feel of having John there. John planted a quick kiss on his cheek. "Whether it comes today or tomorrow, it won't make a difference, will it?" John said. "Either way, you get to send three letters, and if you don't figure out where to meet him—dot, dot, dot…"

"You aren't helping," Sherlock muttered.

"Wait, that's what you're nervous about?" John asked incredulously. "About what the 'dot, dot, dot' actually _is_?"

Sherlock was quiet, not knowing what to say, but that obviously gave John his answer. John, opposed to what Sherlock usually said, was not dense.

"What, I thought you didn't care," John said. "That knowing people could be in danger wouldn't help you solve the riddle."

Sherlock, again, didn't speak.

He hadn't cared, at first. But the more he thought about it, the more it concerned him. Whoever this was, they knew a good amount about Sherlock. That he was cleverer than average, that he was an expert of deduction. That he was The Notesman, and the police didn't even know that. So if this person knew all that about Sherlock, he knew much more on top of that. And one thing, he knew for sure. He'd said it in one of the notes, actually.

Sherlock's weaknesses.

Well, weakness. Because Sherlock only had one.

He had one last letter. If he didn't know where to meet this man by then, then the "dot, dot, dot" would be revealed. And Sherlock had a bad feeling he knew exactly what it would be.

_Your dear John._ That's what he'd said.

Sherlock's arms tightened around John unwillingly, and he rested his head against the other boy's shoulder.

John, in response, ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Tell me what's wrong. What's _really_ wrong."

How could Sherlock possibly admit the truth when the truth was… he was scared—petrified—because he had a feeling, a really horrid feeling, that he wasn't going to figure out where to meet this person. He had learned many things about them through deduction, of course. They were a criminal mastermind, one that organised other crimes. They knew much more about Sherlock than they had any right to, so they had connections, possibly in the school itself.

But even with all that, Sherlock was no nearer to knowing where to actually find him than he was before.

"Sherlock," John said quietly, but the intonation was different. Sherlock carefully moved John from his lap—he couldn't bring himself to be cold with the boy now, not when he was so worried about him—and then rushed over to the door.

Sherlock's heart sank into his abdomen. Only three letters again. Apparently, he hadn't done well.

John picked them up this time.

"Give me them," Sherlock demanded.

John ignored him and opened the first letter, reading it in his head for a moment before reading aloud, "I'm disappointed in you, Sherlock Holmes. I was sure you'd know me by now. You've even seen me before. But, still, for the sake of the game, I'll give you two more."

So one of the papers wasn't even a clue, it was an admonition. Oh, Sherlock had a bad, bad feeling.

Apparently, John did too, because he was just looking up at Sherlock, the other two papers still unopened. His eyes were big.

"Sherlock…" John murmured.

"Read the other two," Sherlock said tersely.

"But—"

"Read them or hand them over," he insisted, holding his hand out.

John, instead of putting the letters in his hand, put his own palm there. Sherlock wanted to be annoyed, but feeling John next to him was the only relief he could think of from this nearly crippling terror that was seizing him.

John set the other two letters down and Sherlock didn't even stop him. John came forward, resting his hands on either side of Sherlock's face, and Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, the texture of John's skin against his. His hands were calloused, and very capable of being rough with Sherlock, but they were so gentle as he held Sherlock now. How John could be so harsh and so tender at the same time, he would never understand, but that was just the way of John Watson.

"Sherlock, you're not telling me something," John said. "Because I've never seen you this nervous about anything before."

Sherlock really didn't know what to say. So he ignored the words and just focused on John-things. The smell, the feel, the sound of his breathing.

"Sherlock," John said again. "Have you considered going to the police about this?"

This made Sherlock's eyes open. He had to force himself not to be rude in his response. "Four reasons why I can't do that," Sherlock said in a bored voice. "One, it's just letters. I doubt they'd take it seriously. Two, if I haven't figured it out with the information given, there's no way the Yard will. Third, I'd have to admit to being The Notesman, and that's hardly worth it, and finally, fourth—"

"Okay, Sherlock, I get it," John grumbled. "The police aren't an option."

John and Sherlock looked over to the last two letters together. Then John reached over, took them, and held them out for Sherlock.

"Please, do something miraculous, Sherlock. I've seen you do it enough times."

Sherlock nodded. He had to figure this out. For John.

He opened the first one and read it aloud without even being asked. He couldn't deny John anything he wanted, not now. "I'm in the alphabet."

"What the hell?" John said. "Is he just sending us rubbish?"

Sherlock went for the second one without response. "If you know who I am, you'll know where to find me."

Sherlock looked down to the two letters and his heart, which had already been in his stomach, sunk still further, way down into his toes.

He had no idea.

He could look at these letters for days like the last ones, but it wouldn't change the fact that he didn't know the answer. Sure, more could be deduced from this. Especially the last one. He probably had a name Sherlock would recognise, whether it was because they had met before—which the first letter implied—or he had a household name anyone would know, or he worked for a family-owned shop where his name was plastered on the outside. But that was still too vast a group to survey, and as Sherlock only had a week—a week between letters each time made Sherlock think that was some sort of deadline—he wouldn't be able to look at every name he recognised and decide which person was secretly sinister. Even he wasn't that good.

And maybe this person knew that already.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't understand at first why John sounded that way, but then he looked down in his hands and saw he was crushing the letters in his own furious fist.

Sherlock threw them on the ground with an enraged grunt.

"I don't know, John!" he finally said. "I don't know the answer!"

Sherlock felt like he couldn't breathe, and as he watched, John's face went from concern to fear.

"Sherlock, take deep breaths," he said, his voice gone soothing the way it did when he was panicking. "It's okay. You can't do everything."

"But I should be able to!" Sherlock roared. "If I can't do this, what the hell am I good for?"

John immediately came forward, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, who was shaking at this point.

"You're not just good for your mind, Sherlock," John said quickly. "I love you for much more than that."

Sherlock stopped. Everything stopped. And he looked down at John.

"You _what_?" he asked quietly.

John smiled shyly, his ears going pink. "Come, Sherlock, I thought you were a genius. I figured you knew that by now."

Sherlock took a deep breath. The words John had said had worked to calm him a little. "What else… what else do you… love… about me?" Sherlock asked, finding himself having trouble getting the words out.

"Your heart, Sherlock."

Sherlock's brows pulled together in honest confusion. "I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"Oh, yes you do," John said. "I see it every day. And I love it much more than your head."

"I…" Sherlock murmured, feeling completely lost for words. "You know, John, I feel… I… I don't know how to say it."

John smiled again. "Just another one of your quirks," he mused. "You always have trouble saying how you feel. It's okay, I already know."

"You do?"

John nodded. "Of course I know. I'm quite clever, you know," he added jokingly. Then he gave Sherlock a kiss, and Sherlock really paid attention this time to what it felt like.

Because, oh god, Sherlock was worried.

"Will you tell me now?" John asked when he backed away. "What's happening that you don't want to tell me?"

Sherlock gulped. "Just…" he mumbled, "just don't leave the dormitory other than for classes."

John's brows creased. "You think he might get me?"

"Could be a lot of things," Sherlock lied. God, when had he started lying to spare people's feelings?

When he fell hard for John Watson, that's when.

"I'll be careful," John promised.

Sherlock nodded, but didn't feel any better.

Because he had a feeling that John being careful wasn't going to do a damn thing.

* * *

**Poor Sherlock is so worried!**

**Sooooooo let me know what you're feelin' about the story! (25)**

**By the way, I mentioned giving sweets to the people who figure out who mystery letter guy is and somebody said "Moriarty". Just as a note, yes, it's Moriarty, that much is hopefully obvious, but I more meant who they were in this story, not in general. A few people have guessed already, so my clues have indeed been obvious enough. But I won't say, for those of you that don't know yet! : ]**

**And lastly, I think chapters will be coming out much slower from here on out. Like I said at the beginning, I should never take longer than a week, but I've spent far too much of my time lately on this when I have a million and three other things to do, including trying to publish my original works, which should really have priority over fanfiction. But anyway, so yes, chapters may take a tad longer, or they may not, but I wanted to warn you just in case.**

**Anywho, that's all. Thanks for reading/following/favouriting/reviewing! You're all awesome!**


	24. Chapter 23: Sherlock's Anxiety

**Yeah, so that took a few days, sorry 'bout that. Just been so busy. I almost started writing a modern coffee shop AU Merthur tonight and was like, no, I ****_have_**** to work on Westwood! So here you go!**

* * *

John was sitting with Sherlock's arm around his shoulder, feeling his sharp chin against the top of his head. It had been a week and a half since Sherlock sent his last response to Mr Nameless Copycat, the one that was a summary of everything he knew, but did not include anything about the Copycat's true name, home, or place of employment. They had gotten no response since it happened, nothing was strange.

Well, yes, things were strange. But the thing that was strange was Sherlock.

But, you know, in a different way than usual.

Sherlock was usually very private and didn't bother to talk to John much. When Sherlock did talk, it was short and curt and usually about a case or something. Sherlock only rarely had sweet moments with John. John didn't really mind it. You got used to it when you lived with Sherlock. And even more used to it when you dated him, it seemed.

But now, Sherlock was suddenly not so passive. He would barely break contact from John for any reason. Without any words being spoken on the matter, they both shared John's bed every night, because one night a week back Sherlock just got in bed next to John wordlessly and John didn't say anything about it. Sherlock still wasn't talking very much—actually, maybe less than usual—but he wasn't really working on cases and when he did speak, he said odder things than usual.

He would ask John about himself. Ask him what his life was like when he was younger. His favourite food, his favourite colour. Silly things that John never figured Sherlock would care about. When John tried to ask the same things, Sherlock ignored it and asked another question.

And John enjoyed Sherlock's sudden interest in him, his apparent need to cuddle at all hours of the day… but at the same time, it worried him. It wasn't like Sherlock. John had tried to ask what was up with him, but Sherlock would always deflect it, and then sit silently, looking deep in thought. John just wanted to know what was going through Sherlock's head too.

So there they were again, John reading—or trying to read—a textbook while he could feel Sherlock's breath teasing against his head, nearly hear the cogs working in his mind.

"Sherlock," John finally said, "you're really worrying me."

It was a new route, one John hadn't yet tried. Showing concern as opposed to just plain curiosity. He didn't know if it would help or not, but he didn't know what to try at this point.

It seemed to work better than the other attempts, because Sherlock loosened his grip just enough so he could look John in the eye. "Worrying you?"

"You're not acting like yourself ever since you sent the last letter. You're thinking all the time."

"I'm always thinking all the time."

"But not about the same things."

An entertained glint was in Sherlock's eye. "Then what am I thinking about?"

"Sometimes you're worried about what Copycat is going to do now. You're definitely worried about me, though I don't know why. And… I think you're wondering about what Chester Wilkinson said about your mother."

That last part made Sherlock's eyes widen, just barely. "Why would I be thinking about that?"

"Because, back when she was alive, you must've really cared about her."

Sherlock continued to look at John, not seeming to know how to lie or play it off this time. So finally, he nodded. "She… you…" He looked at his lap and John was surprised to see Sherlock honestly tongue-tied. Then he said, "Part of the reason I liked you in the first place was because you reminded me of her."

John nodded. "And when she was alive… you were different?"

Sherlock chuckled darkly. "As different as you are from me now. Besides my intellect, I was… well, I was normal. Like any other little boy."

"But then your mum died and you lost faith in people? Is that why you're… like this?"

Sherlock's eyes went hard. "I'm like this because humans are weak."

"Right," John muttered, elbowing at Sherlock so he'd move his arm and leave him alone.

But this time, since Sherlock was so bent on keeping contact with John at all times, he quickly said, "I didn't mean you. Please. Don't go."

"Now you're begging? Sherlock, what the hell is going on?"

"You already know, John."

"You're worried Copycat might want me?"

"No. I'm terrified because I _know_ he wants you."

John blinked. "How do you know that?"

"There's nothing else in the world he could do to hurt me. Nothing at all. You're the only thing that really matters to me. You're the only thing he can take, he can ruin, that will deeply affect me."

Hearing Sherlock say that felt like he was dreaming, but John kept the dazed smile from his face in favour of more concern.

"So you're convinced if you even stop touching me I'll, what, vanish in thin air?"

"I don't know," Sherlock sighed. "Maybe. I don't trust anyone else with you."

"Not even the air?"

"Especially not the air."

John rolled his eyes. "Well I can't keep ditching any class you can't come to with me, Sherlock. I need to live my life. And, more importantly, pass my classes."

"It would be hard to live your life _or_ pass your classes if you were dead."

"What, you think he plans to _kill_ me?"

"He obviously has no problem killing people. Why wouldn't he kill you?"

"Because he could have already, couldn't he? He's been outside our room at least three times now. It must be something else."

"That doesn't mean it's something good," Sherlock muttered.

"I know, Sherlock… but I need to get out of this room. We both do. We can't hide forever."

"Well we can get out tonight then," Sherlock said, standing up and grabbing his coat (one of the rare times Sherlock would let go of John was to get dressed. The other was to go to the toilet). "Wilkinson is out of jail."

"Already?" John marveled.

"He never was convicted. Somehow, they found him innocent."

"Must be Copycat's doing."

"Obviously. But I want to talk to him… Maybe this time I can get something out of him about Copycat."

John might've argued, had he not known that it probably wasn't the Copycat he wanted to ask about, but his mother. "You can go, but I need to study, Sherlock. I can't tonight."

Sherlock looked at John dubiously. "I'm not leaving you here."

"Sherlock, I'll keep the door locked. I'll stay in Greg's room if you want, we can study together."

"No, stay in here."

"Fine, I can invite he and Molly here then. It'll be fine."

"You can't leave, John."

"I know."

"I'm serious."

"I heard you."

"John…"

"Sherlock," John said, getting up and putting his hands on his shoulders. "Breathe, will you? I'm a big boy."

Sherlock's manic, desperate glint in his eyes made John get on his toes and press his lips to Sherlock's.

"I'll be fine. Talk to Wilkinson, figure out what you need to."

Sherlock nodded. "Okay, okay. I'll see you in an hour, okay?"

"Okay," John agreed with one last kiss, and then Sherlock was out the door within twenty seconds.

John sat on the bed and looked at his homework again, but again, he was having trouble. Damn Calculus.

John thought for a moment. Well, Sherlock told him not to leave, but it was office hours… he just needed to see a professor, and then get a cuppa on the way back. No big deal. He'd be back before Sherlock had time to miss him.

So he packed up his stuff and went out the door.

* * *

**Heya guys. Bad John, not listening to Sherlock. But it'll all be fine, right? No worries...**

**Please review! (26)**


	25. Chapter 24: Revelation

Sherlock was already questioning his decision to leave John alone by the time he got into a cab. He considered sending him a text, but John would probably only get frustrated if Sherlock sent one so soon after leaving. John was already angry with Sherlock, because probably he thought he was being patronising, but that wasn't it at all. In fact, if anyone could take care of themselves, it was John Watson. But this wasn't normal circumstances. This man they were dealing with, he was so much more than they had ever seen before.

Sherlock didn't want to admit it out loud, but possibly this man was more than Sherlock was prepared to deal with. So if Sherlock didn't know what to do, how would John? Brute force wouldn't help him, he knew that.

And really, even if John could deal with the man himself, Sherlock wanted to be there to help him. Sherlock had known he cared for John before all this, but now that he was so scared John was going to be taken away from him, he could see quite clearly that what he had taken for fondness was much closer to adoration.

Love.

And Sherlock couldn't bear to think that the man he possibly loved was going to be taken from him, never to be seen again. Not _his_ John.

Sherlock tried to convince himself that he was being silly. It's not like he absolutely knew he was going to take John…

But he did. The Copycat was going to take John if he could get his hands on him, that was just a fact. And nobody could take his John. Nobody.

So instead of texting John and making him angry, Sherlock sent a text to Lestrade.

_I need you to check on John. – SH_

_Check on him? He's not a kid, you know. – GL_

Sherlock sighed in irritation. How was he supposed to explain this without Lestrade knowing too much?

But then his mobile buzzed again.

_Is he in danger? – GL_

Sherlock wasn't sure how Lestrade had assumed that, but he also wasn't sure he cared at this point.

_Yes. – SH_

_Why? What's happened? – GL_

_Will you just check on him? Please. – SH_

_PLEASE? Shit, something must be wrong. I'll be back at the room in twenty minutes. I'll check. – GL_

Twenty minutes wasn't what Sherlock preferred, but it was better than the hour it would take Sherlock to return.

_Thank you. – SH_

_… A please AND a thank you. Now you're worrying me. – GL_

_You should be worried. I am. – SH_

_I'll go back as soon as I can. – GL_

Sherlock felt an odd appreciation for Lestrade in that moment. Anyone else might not have taken Sherlock seriously. He trusted that Lestrade was being honest and felt a little better as the cab took him away from campus.

He arrived at the butcher shop, went around back, and Chester Wilkinson was standing outside. Sherlock didn't miss the cleaver at his hip. He _did_ work at a butcher shop, so it could have been there because of that, but Sherlock suspected it was for self-defense too.

"Your boss works quickly," said Sherlock, getting right to the point. He didn't feel comfortable being away from John longer than he needed to.

"He's everywhere," Chester replied with an easy smile.

"Apparently, since you're out here waiting for me."

"He knew you'd be back when you heard that I got out. Or never went in, technically."

"And he knew it would be today?"

"He knew it'd be right now," replied Chester.

Sherlock considered this. If he knew John was at the room alone…

Chester must've seen the panic on Sherlock's face. "Probably your friend is already gone," said Chester.

"Someone would see him get taken away," Sherlock said. "Nobody would allow that."

"But John's going to go straight to him," replied Wilkinson. "That's the beauty."

"But why would John…" Sherlock began, but then the realisation hit him like a bus.

How could he ever have been so stupid?

How could he not have realised?

_You've even seen me before._

_If you know who I am, you'll know where to find me._

"Figured it out then?" Wilkinson asked.

_I'm in the alphabet._

That one was the real clue. The one that should have told Sherlock everything.

And Chester was right. John would go right to him.

"Oh my god," Sherlock breathed.

"Yup, he's got it!" Chester chuckled.

Sherlock was so furious with himself that he wanted to violently take it out on Mr Chester Wilkinson, but he didn't have the time. Because now that he knew who it was, he knew exactly where to find him.

Professor James Moriarty.

And probably, John decided he needed help with his homework and left the room to go to his office hours… which happened to be right now. John must've figured that just going to the office and back, there wouldn't be an issue. No need to warn Sherlock of that. He figured he'd be back before Sherlock and there'd be no reason for his roommate to think he'd gone anywhere.

But that was exactly what Professor Moriarty intended all along. He'd gotten John's trust all semester just for this moment.

Sherlock turned around and walked back towards the street.

"Just because you know who he is doesn't mean you can save that partner of yours!" Wilkinson called after him.

Sherlock almost took the gun out of his coat and shot the butcher in the head, but he kept himself from it with all of his willpower.

Sherlock got in the cab and was tapping his foot restlessly. He wanted to text John, and for John to answer telling him to stop being a nag so that Sherlock's blood would stop pumping so damn fast in his veins.

But then his phone went off and he took it out of his coat so quickly it slipped from his hands and he had to pick it up from the cab floor.

It was Lestrade.

_Sherlock, John's not in the room. Is something wrong? – GL_

Oh no. God, no. It was the only thing going through Sherlock's head, just NO repeated over and over, like his John loop, except more frantic than ever before.

Sherlock didn't plan to waste time going back to the room. He had the cabbie stop in front of the main part of campus…

And Lestrade was waiting there.

Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together as he got out.

"What're you doing here?" he asked, not bothering to stop walking. Lestrade was forced to keep stride.

"Something's really wrong with John, isn't it?"

"He might already be dead," said Sherlock.

There was a beat of silence. "I'd ask if you were kidding, except you don't joke."

"Do you have something else to say? I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"I want to come with you," Lestrade said.

This made Sherlock break stride for half a moment. "No," he said then. But then he added, "Why would you want to?"

"Because John's my mate. And saving people is what I want to do, Sherlock, remember?"

"I don't need help."

"But I want to help anyway. I'm sure even The Notesman can't do everything."

Sherlock looked back at him for barely a moment, then looked ahead again. "Probably he can't, but what's that got to do with this conversation?"

"My pop mentioned that you got taken in for questioning regarding that case, because he knew I was friends with you. Since I'd already been suspicious, it was the final proof. I've known for a while now."

"And you never told _dad_ the truth?" Sherlock asked dryly.

"Of course not," Lestrade said. "Maybe the force wouldn't agree with me, but you're a hero. I'd never turn you in for that."

"I'm not a hero."

"You save people, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "Even if that isn't what matters to you, it's true. And, apparently, you put your life and the life of your friends in danger while you're at it. That must be why someone took John."

"You're not as dim as you look," Sherlock said, his gait quickening to a near-jog when he could see the building he needed to get to in the distance.

"Thanks," Lestrade said, not even sounding insulted.

Sherlock had mostly not wanted him to come since he thought he didn't know about Sherlock being The Notesman. But since he did… what did it matter if he brought Lestrade with him?

"This is going to be dangerous," Sherlock said.

"I know that."

"You could die."

"I'm aware."

"And you still want to come?"

"Sherlock, just because I'm not in love with John doesn't mean I don't care enough to risk my life for him."

Sherlock felt warmer towards Lestrade in that moment than he ever had. Him being able to tolerate Sherlock was always nice, but that he cared that much about John was even better in Sherlock's mind. Someone who would risk their life for John was worth being around, in Sherlock's book.

"Fine, you can come. Just don't talk."

Lestrade, apparently taking Sherlock very seriously on that statement, didn't respond.

At first.

But then he said, "Wait, why're we walking further into campus? Who took John?"

"Professor Moriarty."

Sherlock heard a sharp intake of breath. "Wait, you mean J?!"

"Yes, I mean J."

* * *

**So, the grand reveal has arrived. Biscuits/cookies go to ****_Mickanella, Anitayvette94, thisismyotp,_**** and ****_Berylbatch_**** for sending me their guesses and being correct. So congratulations! **

**So... pretty please review (27).**


	26. Chapter 25: The Rooftop

**I've never actually written Moriarty dialogue before... This should be interesting. **

* * *

Currently, John was thinking about the fact that he was quite possibly actually as stupid as Sherlock always accused him of being. John suddenly was like a moth being drawn to fire, a fly that flutters into a spider's web of its own free will.

Sherlock had told him not to leave the room. Sherlock had said he would be back in an hour, and until then, John should just stay put.

If only John would have had the sense to listen.

He had been outside J's door when he remembered again that Sherlock had been so adamant on him staying in the room. He really shouldn't've left.

But honestly, he was already here now. Getting the help he needed wasn't going to take back that he had deliberately gone against what Sherlock said. Going in the room wasn't going to make things worse.

Oh, how wrong he was.

* * *

He walked in and J was at his computer. He turned and a grin found his face. "My favourite student!" he gushed with that silly voice of his that would go from high to low in the middle of sentences. John had gotten used to J's oddities the same way he got used to Sherlock's. Without the shagging part, of course. "Have some tea," he said, handing John a cup that he only vaguely noticed was already ready for him, which was a bit strange.

"I was having trouble on this homework," John said, getting to the point, because he didn't know why, but his skin was tingling in this odd way… something that felt a little like base survival instinct. For whatever reason, he suddenly felt like a rabbit being stalked by a wolf and he wanted to hop away as soon as he could, go back to the safety of Sherlock's arms.

J kept looking between John and the tea, and John, to get him to stop staring like that, took a sip. This seemed to be what J wanted, because his intense gaze immediately softened and became normal again, making John almost feel like he had imagined it.

"I know you were," J said, dramatically solemn. He had a tendency of changing emotions drastically with every response he gave, one moment happy and the next sad and the next excited again.

"You did?" John asked apprehensively, and without meaning to, he was inching towards the door again.

That instinct was flashing hotter in his brain. It said '_get_ _out'_. It said '_this is one enemy you can't handle_'.

John tried to calm himself. What enemy, Calculus?

"Of course I did," said J. "I planned it that way. So you'd come here today."

John was, to say the least, confused. "Sorry?"

Now John's anxiety was going from just a feeling to something he was consciously noticing. He could tell that J was acting strange.

J grinned and John's breath caught in his throat. Something was wrong. Really wrong.

"You know what," John said, "I can probably figure it out on my own. I really should go. I'm supposed to be meeting—"

"You really aren't going anywhere, John," said J.

"I—um—" John was blabbering, not knowing what to do.

But before John could do much else, suddenly his vision was blurring and then it went black.

* * *

And that brings us to the present. John waking up blearily, looking around at a completely unfamiliar setting. He was outside. On top of… a building? Yes, it seemed he was on some roof somewhere. Why the hell was he here?

More importantly, why had he drank that stupid tea? He should've known there was something weird about the way J wanted him to drink it.

J.

With the letter going through his mind came a sudden moment of illumination. He wondered if this was how Sherlock felt all the time, making a conclusion using tons of collected details.

Because now it was all stupidly obvious.

J was a letter in the alphabet.

And if Sherlock had realised it was J, he would have known to meet him at his office, thus that clue. God, he'd been stupid. Sherlock maybe not so much, because he'd never met J. But John… he really should have figured this.

John looked up to see J standing there, looking down on him with a grin.

"You're the guy who's been sending us the notes," he said the moment his nausea went away enough that he could speak.

"Jim Moriarty, at your service," he replied.

"But… why?"

Moriarty tipped his head to the side, and then said quickly and emphatically, "You need to be more specific. Why send the notes? Why be interested in Sherlock? Why be angry with Sherlock for solving all my crimes? Why help people commit the crimes in the first place? Why take you? Why—"

John took this long to even process what Moriarty was saying, because his words were so jumbled and excited and John was groggy from whatever drug was in the tea. In fact, he'd only just noticed his hands were tied behind his back.

"Why any of it?" John finally interrupted.

Another grin slid onto Moriarty's face. "Why do people do anything?"

John wasn't sure if it was a rhetorical question or not, but when Moriarty continued to stare at him with wide-eyed interest, still grinning, John figured he was supposed to respond. "Usually people do things because of the things they care about. To have the will to do something, you've got to have passion."

"_Passion_!" Moriarty suddenly yelled, making John jump with the suddenness of it. "I like that, John, I do. I think Sherlock gives you far too little credit. That's good. But, sadly, wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Maybe not for most people. But you see, I'm _not_ most people."

He hated to compare this sadistic prick with Sherlock, but he was sounding a whole lot like him in that moment. John rolled his eyes. "Then why do you do the things you do?"

Moriarty stroked his chin with his fingers in melodramatic thought, pouting his lips like a child. "Because I'm bored and because I can," he finally decided.

"You _kill_ people out of _boredom_?" How could John ever have misjudged this man so completely?

"It's not really all that different from knitting out of boredom. There's even usually sharp objects involved with both," he added excitedly.

"How are those not different?" John enquired, mostly disgusted but just the tiniest bit intrigued.

"To knit a jumper and to organise a crime are surprisingly similar. They take time and planning, they take patience. Then what they produce in the end are things that could be found everywhere. Honestly, there're probably more corpses in the ground than there are jumpers on people. It's all natural."

"Killing people is _not_ natural."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but **_EVERYONE_** **_DIES_**!" He bellowed the last two words so loud that John was surprised nobody could hear from the ground below, however far down it was from this rooftop.

"Not everyone's murdered though," John replied, keeping calm.

"No, that's true," Moriarty mused, suddenly serene once more, "but it's more fun this way." Just then, there was a _pip_ and Moriarty looked excited. "You have a text!" he sang, pulling John's mobile from his own pocket. He must've taken it when John was passed out.

He looked at the phone. "It's from a Greg Lestrade," said Moriarty. "Let's see what he says." More fiddling with the phone, and then he looked up to John, his mouth shaped into a perfect like 'O'. "This is interesting! _Hey John, Sherlock's a bit concerned about you, and now you aren't in the room. Are you alright? _How sweet! Sherlock's concerned that his pet's run away!"

"I'm nobody's pet," John snarled.

Moriarty looked down to John with an entertained smile. "You're feisty, aren't you? Well, maybe a bit of time up here with Sebastian will get rid of that."

John hadn't noticed before, but there was another man on the roof with them, clear on the other side. He had a fucking arsenal strewn about around him.

"You see," continued Moriarty, "I've got to go meet Sherlock. I didn't tell him to come here, of course. But, luckily for you, you won't miss a thing!"

He came over and shoved something in John's ear.

"**_TESTING_**!" he yelled into a speaker on his suit jacket, making John yelp with pain. "Good, it's working," said Moriarty. "So you just wait here, and if you make a move, Sebastian here will shoot you in the face. Though, that'd really be a shame and no fun at all, so don't do that. Plus, you've got such a nice little face."

Moriarty took leisurely steps until he got to the door to go down into the building, to meet Sherlock somewhere. It could've been anywhere.

He went through the door and vanished, but then Moriarty's voice sounded in his left ear.

"Don't worry, John. I don't plan to kill your lover."

A long pause. John thought maybe he wasn't going to say anything else, and was marveling at how he had ever gotten into a situation like this, and how Sherlock was going to miraculously get them out of it, when the voice came back.

"Today, at least."

* * *

**Hopefully my Moriarty wasn't totally dumb and OOC. **

**You can let me know if it was in a review! (28)**


	27. Chapter 26: The Spider And His Web

**Another chapter that took forever. Sorry about that. It's really my fault, because I was dumb enough to start another Sherlock fic called _Deletion,_ which has been occupying my time along with my original novels. But if you'd like to have something to occupy you between chapters, you could go take a look at _Deletion,_ or any of my other completed Johnlocks on my profile. I think I have like eight or something.**

**Anywho, enjoy!**

* * *

Lestrade was being quiet now, probably being appalled that a professor that seemed _so_ _nice_ could take John like this. This was why Sherlock didn't let kindness fool him. Anyone could be a murderer, _anyone_ could be secretly insane. He didn't let things like _personality_ cloud his judgment.

They got to the building—it took an infuriating three minutes and sixteen seconds for Sherlock to cross the entire campus, which usually took people ten—and then when they pressed the button for the lift, Sherlock was patient enough to wait seven seconds for it, and then he just went for the stairs. Lestrade didn't even complain that J's office was on the sixth floor.

Then Sherlock burst into the office, and as he expected, they weren't actually there. But there was a folded letter on his desk, one that looked inconspicuous but was also readily visible from the door for someone who was six feet tall. Sherlock knew it was placed there so only he would notice it. He grabbed it quickly and read:

_I really am disappointed, Sherlock. It took you a long time to figure me out. I thought I'd found a playmate. But, oh well. Either way, I've got John. Meet me at the pool and we'll talk. And if you bring that Greg Lestrade with you, or anyone else, you'll find John with a hole in his head. _

"I have to go alone," Sherlock said aloud quickly, "or John dies."

"What?" Lestrade yelped. Sherlock didn't take the time to explain. He started going back down the stairs, Lestrade following quickly. He apparently picked up the letter, too, because he said, "Which pool? It's not like there's only one in town."

"I know which one," Sherlock said.

"Of _course_ you do," Lestrade muttered. "How silly of me to forget that you know _everything_."

Sherlock went down another flight before saying, "I will send you a text message when I get out."

"No you won't," Lestrade said. "You never do."

Sherlock turned. He didn't have time for this. So he said, "I promise I will."

Lestrade was quiet for another frustrating 2.4 seconds before he said, "Fine. Do me a favour and don't get killed by a psychopath, yeah?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked away towards 'the pool' that Moriarty had mentioned. Sherlock almost smiled at the artfulness of it, going to an indoor pool, of all places.

He walked in and there he was, the man that had been right at his fingertips all along, evading him by seeming so ordinary. Now, he was not wearing jeans and a hideously-patterned shirt like John had once described, but a suit that was probably worth nearly ten thousand pounds. Ironically, it was Westwood.

"Sherrrrrrlock!" Moriarty gushed, beaming. "I'm so glad to see you!"

"_Where_ _is_ _John_?" demanded Sherlock, emphasizing each word—which, with that velvety baritone of his, was actually quite intimidating to any sane person.

Which probably wasn't the case for this man in front of him anyway. He just smiled pleasantly, a mad glint in his eyes that automatically told Sherlock 'psychopath', just as Lestrade had guessed.

Then the man said, in a curiously high voice, "First, we chat."

Sherlock usually might have liked the chance. He had secretly respected this man, who was so clever he could fool even Sherlock Holmes, but now, his mind was on one track again, and that track was screaming so loud Sherlock's head was echoing, nearly aching, from the intensity of it. "I won't talk to you until you tell me where John is."

The man smiled. "Fine then, I'll say one simple word and John will die where he stands."

It made chills go up Sherlock's spine, not because his voice was menacing, but because it was so collected, still high and giddy. He was smiling. Like this was everyday talk for him, talk he thoroughly enjoyed. And probably, it was. Sherlock paused, took a deep breath. "How do I know he isn't dead already? Or at least injured in some way?"

"Because that'd be dull," he replied. "Plus, he's one of my favourite students. Did you know he aced my last exam? Really quite amazing."

Sherlock knew he was telling the truth about John being alive, and in one piece, so he decided the 'chat' was his only option. So he said, "J. J, being short for James. James Moriarty."

"Present!" he hollered, throwing one arm up in the air like he was sitting in a primary school classroom.

"You're a professor here. And on the side, you organise crimes."

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "_Boooooriiiiing_. Tell me something you didn't know three weeks ago."

"You apparently have a taste for irony."

Moriarty's eyes got wide and he clapped once with excitement. "_There_ we go! There's something. And why do you say that, Sherlock?"

"This pool has been closed down for years, so you knew it would be empty, but you are too much of an _artist _to do something only for accessibility. So it must be because last time I was at an indoor pool, I saw my first case. It was the first time I ever had interest in crime solving: Carl Powers. I never did solve it. And now, you figure this will be my last case too, also left unsolved in the end."

"Yes, I do like to think of myself as your _final_ _problem_," he said, "but that comes later. For now, we continue to talk. Because, see, I really thought I'd found another mind much like my own. Maybe I could forgive someone solving all my crimes, sending my clients to jail, if that were so, but you're ordinary. Just _ordinary_. Soooooooo, that means that you're just an ordinary person in my way and I just won't have that."

"So kill me," Sherlock said. "You could've the moment I walked in, seeing as there's a sniper in the room."

"Three, actually," he said. "Not my favourite one though. He's with John. They're both listening in, so they aren't missing the excitement though."

Sherlock's fists clenched tight at the mention of John. He wasn't dumb enough to think John was in the room, and that was why he was listening, but he didn't doubt John was somehow hearing this. And it made him a little nervous, to know John could hear him. "So that means you don't want me dead, if you didn't tell them to shoot when I walked in," Sherlock said, because responding to what Moriarty had said would have made him lose his cool. "So what _do_ you want?"

"I want you to stop getting my clients arrested. Ordinary or not, you're a real pain in my bum at the moment."

"But you've already said that it'd be dull to kill me, or to kill John, so what happens if I just ignore you and continue what I'm doing?"

"Oh, it'd be dull to kill you _now_. You _will_ die, I guarantee that. And I even know where. John's there right now, but he's a bit tied up at the moment."

He waited with a big grin, like Sherlock was supposed to laugh at his pun. "John doesn't need to be a part of this."

"But of course he does. He's the only thing on this planet I can use against you. Really, I should've known you were ordinary the moment I realised you were so close to him. Becoming close to people is the last thing you do when you want to work against dangerous criminals."

"So what are we doing here?" Sherlock snapped. "You know I won't stop. You won't kill me now; I _can't_ kill _you_ now with all the gunners in the room. We're at an impasse."

"True. I really only had one thing to say. A little game for you, so to speak."

Sherlock's interest piqued accidentally. "A game?"

"Well, more like a test, unfortunately." A pause. "You have two options, Sherlock Holmes. One, you leave this pool, go back to your room, and enjoy living alone like you wanted to when you got to Westwood."

"And forget about John?" Sherlock said, trying to keep steady, to seem calm at the idea.

"Precisely. Let me keep him. You go home; I promise not you hurt you. Even when you continue to solve my crimes, I leave you be, and you forget John Watson was ever in your life at all."

Sherlock noticed that Moriarty said nothing about not hurting _John_. This, so far, was an unappealing choice.

"And the other option?"

Moriarty smiled in a way that made Sherlock's spine tingle. "The other option is you go and find him. And when you get there, you will see the place where you'll die. And once you see it, it will surely come to pass. So you go and save John, and you can be sure that before this time next year, you'll be six feet under. And then John will be the one having to live without you."

So they were both terrible options then. That made sense. That seemed the type of thing Moriarty enjoyed, making people suffer.

Sherlock was starting to really wonder why he had let John get under his skin. This wouldn't be in question if he hadn't, not really.

But now, the thought of leaving John with Moriarty was unthinkable.

But what was worse? That or letting John live to see Sherlock die? Because if John thinking about Sherlock dead was anything like Sherlock trying to imagine giving John up forever, it was pretty horrible.

Sherlock hadn't been thinking for very long when he decided to be selfish. With John now or never seeing him again? When he looked at it from that point of view, it was simple.

"Where is John?" Sherlock demanded, feeling very much like the conversation had gone in a circle.

Moriarty starting wiping at imaginary dust on his couple thousand quid jacket. "A rooftop."

"_A_ rooftop?" Sherlock repeated, annoyed.

"On campus," Moriarty added, still looking down at his chest rather than at Sherlock.

"That's all you're telling me?"

"You have that Greg of yours to help you look," Moriarty said, turning around and walking towards the opposite exit. Then he turned back. "I was rather hoping you'd pick this option. It's much more fun." Again, he turned to leave, and as he walked out, he said, "So stop messing with my web, Sherlock. The spider bites."

"You already told me I die either way. So what's the incentive?"

He turned again, and there was no hint of a smile on his face anymore. "I owe you a fall, Sherlock. And you'll get one."

And then he turned and was out the door.

* * *

**Yay for Moriarty. I'm starting to like writing him a great deal. **

**Anywho, please tell me what you think so far.**

**I'm serious. **

**Please review. **

**(I think that counted at two, so we're at 30! Wow. I think that's more requests for reviews then I've had in all my other stories combined. But then again, this story is getting novel-length, so that makes sense...)**


	28. Chapter 27: Out and Open

John was honestly shocked. After listening to the whole conversation and hearing the two options, he thought Sherlock would choose the first. It was obvious. Sherlock would keep getting to do his work without anyone trying to stop him. The only collateral damage would be John. Sherlock could save tons of other people by doing what he always does. And with the other option, Sherlock supposedly died, and Sherlock had far too high of an opinion of himself to count John's life more important than his own.

John had been ready to die. And not even begrudging Sherlock for choosing that option, because it made more sense.

So the moment Sherlock's low, silky voice growled out, "Where is John?" for the second time, showing that he had chosen option two, John's mouth actually fell open for a moment before he had the sense to close it.

Maybe Sherlock felt bad choosing the first option when he knew John was listening? John didn't know, but he intended to ask. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe he could offer himself to Moriarty. Because dying to keep Sherlock alive was the worthiest cause John could imagine.

John was pulled from his own thoughts when he heard noises coming from across the rooftop. He looked up and saw the sniper, Sebastian, packing up his things silently. John took a good look at him now that he was certain he wasn't going to shoot him. He was quite attractive, actually. It seemed like people who were trying to murder you shouldn't have been. In fact, he looked fairly normal. Couldn't have been much older than John.

Then, when everything was in a big silver case, he started walking towards John. John was half-afraid he was going to come over and snap his neck or something, so in response to that fear, he glared hard at Sebastian, saying, "What, _Sebastian_, you going to go against your boss' orders and kill me?"

He didn't respond, just came over and knelt in front of John. Then he took John's mobile out of his pocket and placed it on John's lap. John couldn't recall J—no, _Moriarty_—ever giving it to him, but he must've. "I'd prefer it if you called me Moran," he said, with the type of mock-politeness that made it seem like he was only just trying not to punch John in the jaw just for existing. "Sebastian's a right stupid name, if you ask me. Jim calls me that to annoy me."

"I never plan to meet you again, so I don't really care what you want me to call you."

Moran had a slight smirk on his face. "Don't be so sure," he said, standing up and walking towards the exit. Then, right before he shut the door, he added, "You're on the Natural Sciences building. I'd start screaming that at the top of my lungs if I were you." And then he ducked into the door and was gone.

John considered taking his advice, but then his evil side decided it would be much more fun to wait for Sherlock to find John himself, and then John could tease him for taking so long.

It was six minutes later when the door to the roof was turned and out walked the miracle himself.

"Sherlock!" John said, half sigh and half yell.

Sherlock looked to him and ran over, leaning in front of him, putting his hands on either side of his face.

"How'd you know it'd be this building? You couldn't've been looking for long."

"It's your major, so it seemed appropriately ironic."

"You're amazing, you know what?"

Sherlock leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on John's lips. Sherlock untied John's hands, searching John's body like a whirlwind. "You're all in one piece, right?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock, but why'd you pick option two?"

Sherlock went utterly still, looking John in the eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I was sure you'd pick one. Who cares if I die if you can keep living, keep solving crimes?"

Sherlock was looking at John carefully, his face blank. "You thought I would pick one? Because your life in exchange for all the others I might save, including my own, is a small price to pay?"

"Exactly," John said. So maybe Sherlock really had felt guilty picking one with John listening.

Sherlock's face got close to John, and, very quietly, he said, "Well you're wrong."

Sherlock stood, but John stayed on the ground. "I'm wrong? About w—"

"Losing you is the worst thing I can possibly think of, John. I thought I've told you that I care. I thought you knew that."

John's mouth flapped open and closed for a moment before he said, "I know you care about me. But it's logic. I die, dozens of others live. No matter if you care or not, logic always wins out with you."

Sherlock had his hands behind his back the way he did when he was irritated with what someone was saying, but his face was still cautiously void of reaction to John's words.

Then he started walking towards the door to get back into the building and John scrambled from the ground and followed him quickly. When they got out of the building, Sherlock turned suddenly—so much so that John actually ran into him.

"You really don't get it, do you?" Sherlock snapped.

"Get… get what?" John asked timidly, surprised at Sherlock's sudden anger.

Sherlock sighed, and again his hands found John's cheeks hesitantly. Now John didn't know whether to be apprehensive about what Sherlock was going to say or not, so he just looked up into Sherlock's eyes, seeing the colour flit from light blue to mint green to stormy gray even as he watched in the gathering darkness of sunset.

"Logic was the most important thing to me before, John. But now there's nothing more important to me than you."

"Me?" John asked dumbly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"

"Say…"

Sherlock groaned impatiently.

"Sherlock, I've just been kidnapped. Forgive me if my mind is still a bit jumbled."

Sherlock sighed again, but this time it was shaky, and John's eyebrows pulled together as he looked up at Sherlock in concern. Then, Sherlock said, "John, I'm in love with you."

John's breath caught in his throat. He felt like he had been turned to stone, unable to move, as he looked up into that boy's glorious eyes. But then his body kicked into double-time and he lunged forward, taking Sherlock's big coat by the collar and kissing him hard, any homophobic bystanders be damned.

Sherlock melted into him and kissed back, and it was a wonderful thirteen seconds before someone awkwardly cleared their throat just a few feet away. They separated and there stood both Greg and Molly.

Molly looked shocked, and maybe a little disappointed, but not angry or anything.

Greg, on the other hand, was smiling a little. John knew that Greg was fine with he and Sherlock being together and all, but he was even more okay with it than John had supposed, hardly looking awkward at all at the sight of them kissing.

"When did Molly join the search?" asked Sherlock, the first to speak after an awkward situation, as always.

"I just found Greg a minute ago and he told me he didn't have time to talk because he was looking for you two… well, he found you, I guess…" she trailed off, looking at the ground.

"Sherlock, you've got to tell me what happened," said Greg. "Just a 'search every roof in the school until we find John' isn't quite good enough for me."

"Why was John on a roof?" Molly asked quietly, but nobody paid her any mind.

"Come back to the room and I can tell you what happened," Sherlock said. Apparently their snogging made him more cooperative than usual or something, John thought with a smirk.

Both Greg and Sherlock started walking, leaving John with Molly.

"You've been together all along?" she asked after some silence.

John sighed. "Well… no… kind of. It's a long story."

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

"We weren't really telling anyone," John said, knowing it was a lame excuse, but able to think of nothing else to say.

Molly was quiet for another moment before she said, "Well I'm happy for you. Really."

John thought she meant it. It seemed like it, at least, but girls said things they didn't mean all the time. But, either way, he said, "Thanks. See you later."

She nodded and he followed after Greg and Sherlock.

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**I feel bad for Molly, actually. I mildly ship her with Sherlock from time to time, even if I ship Johnlock ten times harder. But anyway, let me know how you liked the chapter (31).**


	29. Chapter 28: Greg and the Other Holmes

**Woo, another chapter! I kind of added some Mystrade... I didn't mean to do that, originally, but I discovered Mystrade a week ago and now I'm mildly fascinated with it. So I might write a full Mystrade eventually, but for now, just hints of it in my Johnlocks that're already in progress.**

**Anywho, enjoy!**

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Sherlock had already memorised that rooftop. The square metres, the air vents, the ledge around the outside. In one trained glance, he remembered everything about it. And it was there in his head when he shut his eyes.

It's not that he regretted his choice. He would've taken option two a hundred times over. It saved John. That's what mattered.

But that didn't stop the rooftop from haunting him from the moment he saw it. It had only been twenty minutes since he saw it and already, it was caught in his mind, there behind every other thought.

They got back to the room and he shoved it back into his head, storing it in his palace so that it didn't distract him for now, but he didn't forget either.

John opened the door, Lestrade walking beside him, because Sherlock had fallen behind, thinking—which was saying something, because John was a slow walker. Short legs.

But when John opened the door to the room, he stopped in the doorway, Lestrade going board straight too.

Sherlock immeditately knew who was there by their reactions.

"Who the hell—" Lestrade began, but was unable to finish.

"No need to panic, Lestrade," Sherlock said in a bored voice. "It's only my brother."

Lestrade whipped around, and then looked back into the room that Sherlock still couldn't see into. "But—he—it—you have a brother?"

Sherlock pushed past Lestrade and John, into the room.

"Nice to actually meet you," John said. "You know, when you aren't trying to be mysterious."

Mycroft gave a smirk that made Sherlock feel nauseated. "I wasn't sure you'd take me seriously if you knew Sherlock was my brother. Desperate times."

"So you must've heard about the kidnapping if you're here," Sherlock said.

"How could he have heard about it?" John enquired. "It only just happened."

Another silence, where Mycroft looked up at the boys silently from his seat—Sherlock's desk chair, to be precise—stroking his umbrella. "Why don't you boys sit down?" he asked. Then he met eyes with Lestrade, probably for the first time. Mycroft looked at him quietly for longer than Sherlock expected, appraising him. "And introduce your friend," he added.

Sherlock was startled by the last part. Mycroft wanted to be introduced to someone? He usually never needed to be.

"You don't already know who it is?"

The tiny smile that came back to his face showed clearly that he did, but he still met eyes with Lestrade again, saying, "My name is Mycroft. I'm Sherlock's elder brother. And you are?"

When there was another pause, Sherlock turned around.

And was surprised to see that Lestrade looked… nervous. Tongue-tied. Sherlock looked between the two of them quickly, careful not to move his head, only to avert his eyes one way, and then the other, so Mycroft wouldn't notice. They still stared at each other.

And Lestrade's gaze really wasn't very platonic, either.

Sherlock never considered the reason why Lestrade was so unbothered by he and John's relationship, but he always noticed he was more accepting of it than some other blokes might be. Was this why?

But, more importantly, if he preferred males, why would he be looking at _Mycroft_ that way? Sure, he'd lost weight since high school, but…

Sherlock didn't spend more than two seconds baffling over it, and by the time he was finished being perplexed, Lestrade looked ready to speak.

"Greg. Greg Lestrade."

"And you're friends with my brother?"

Lestrade smirked. "In a manner of speaking."

"Why do you say that?"

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck before saying, "I try to talk to him, he generally ignores me."

"But you consider him a friend."

Lestrade thought for a moment, looked over to Sherlock. Sherlock's face didn't change, but he looked back to Mycroft and said, "Yeah, I s'ppose I do."

Mycroft nodded. "Because I wasn't aware Sherlock could have friends at all a few months ago, and now it seems he has at least two. Peculiar."

"Enough small talk," Sherlock grumbled, tugging Lestrade in quickly, with a yelp from the boy, so he could shut the door. Lestrade sat next to John on his bed. Sherlock stayed standing. "You're here about the whole Moriarty business?"

Mycroft finally took his penetrating eyes off of Lestrade, and Sherlock actually saw Lestrade relax in his peripherals at being released. _That_ he could understand. Being under Mycroft's invasive gaze was uncomfortable for anyone.

Then Mycroft's scrutiny moved to Sherlock, and he felt his own lip twitch in irritation. "I told you to be careful with all this Notesman business."

"You told John to tell me," Sherlock corrected.

"Because I knew you wouldn't listen to me. You wouldn't've even let me in the room."

"Which is why you showed up here while I was gone, so I'd have a harder time kicking you out."

"Precisely."

"Wait," Lestrade said suddenly, surprising both Sherlock and Mycroft. "Mycroft Holmes, I've heard of you. My pop complains about you!"

"Oh, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade Sr? Yes, I'm sure he does. He hates when I ask for things. Thinks I'm too young for my position."

"Which you are, of course," Sherlock inserted.

"Well maybe that's the Holmes way then, because you're rather young to be The Notesman too."

"He's got a point," Lestrade agreed, but he shied away when Sherlock glared at him—which was funny, considering Lestrade was both three years older than him and his sub-warden, making him Sherlock's superior.

"Why exactly are you here?" he prompted to Mycroft.

"To hear what you have to say about what happened."

"Who says I want to explain it to you?" Sherlock knew he sounded childish, but he didn't care. What right did Mycroft have asking about any of it? He was no part of Sherlock's life, apart from stalking him constantly.

"You're already going to explain it to Gregory here. I don't mind just listening in," he said, leaning back and crossing his legs, as if getting comfortable.

"You're infuriating, you know that?" Sherlock snapped.

"So I've been told. Also a family trait."

John had the nerve to chuckle then, which made Sherlock glare over at him. He only smirked back at him, one eyebrow up as his teeth caught on his bottom lip, nearly making Sherlock shudder. Sherlock immediately decided that after he got Lestrade and Mycroft out of here, John quite deserved a good shag after all he'd been through that day.

So, to speed things up, Sherlock quickly explained from the beginning, the letters, and then how Sherlock couldn't guess who they were from. Even mentioned Chester, but didn't go far into that, not wanting to talk about the involvement of guns or threats of torture—though Mycroft might have assumed that.

After everything, all the men in the room were silent, thinking.

"I can't go to Calculus anymore, can I?" asked John.

"Of course you can," both Mycroft and Sherlock said simultaneously, which made them look awkwardly at each other with scowls on their lips.

Sherlock continued after a moment, "Moriarty won't take you again so soon."

"You're ready to bet my life on that?" John asked seriously.

"I don't think he'll take you again at all," Sherlock said. "He wants me. He took you to get to me. To give me a message. The message has been sent. Plus, it was part of the deal. I die, you're saved."

Sherlock bit his tongue. He hadn't mentioned the whole 'dying' thing in the story, not wanting to start a scene.

But now he'd said it, and both Lestrade and Mycroft were looking at him incredulously. Mycroft looked rather comical, actually. John just met Sherlock's eyes sadly, not seeming to know what to say.

Mycroft's surprise didn't last long. His straight face returned. "Self-sacrifice never seemed your style," Mycroft said dryly.

Sherlock met his eyes steadily. "You have to find something worth sacrificing yourself for," he said.

"And you have?"

Sherlock couldn't help looking over to John, who was both glowing from the praise and looking unhappy at the same time. It was a strange mix. With his eyes still locked with John's, he said quietly, "Yes, I have."

More quiet. Then Mycroft stood. "Well, if you ever want to let go of your pride and ask for help, you know my number." He looked over to Lestrade. "I think these two want some alone time, don't you?"

Lestrade stared up at Mycroft for a moment, but then nodded and stood too. He looked to Sherlock, still looking confused. "You know, I'm here for you too. Whatever you need."

Sherlock nodded curtly, the side of his lip just barely twitching up. He liked Lestrade enough to actually respond to his offer. Lestrade patted John on the back before walking out with Mycroft, looking anxious, and shutting the door. Sherlock felt the muscles in his back relax. Mycroft made him tense.

"It's weird," John said when they were gone, "because Mycroft cares about you in his own Holmes-ish way."

"You think so?" Sherlock asked amusedly.

"Pretty sure."

Sherlock only shrugged and sat on John's bed beside him, smiling when John's head automatically fell onto his shoulder. Sherlock's arm, almost of its own accord, wound around his shoulders in response. They both shuffled back so their backs were against the wall and they sat sideways on the bed, their legs hanging off the side. Sherlock still couldn't understand why he enjoyed this so much, just sitting with John. It seemed a pointless waste of time, but still, it made him feel content. Not boring at all, somehow, even when they did nothing at all but sit and listen to each other breathe.

There was peaceful quiet for a minute.

"You know I won't let you die, right?" John said.

"I don't think either of us will have a say in the matter."

"I won't," John insisted. "You can't die. Not now."

"I'm not dying _now,"_ Sherlock said. "There's no need to worry over it yet. We have time."

"But how much?"

Sherlock, not knowing how else to sidetrack John, turned and took his lips with his own, gripping the side of his face in a deep, extremely distracting kiss.

It worked, because John didn't push away, he only kissed back harder—desperately, like all he needed was to get closer to Sherlock. His fingers tangled in Sherlock's hair in a way that was on the edge of being painful, but Sherlock reveled in the feel of it instead of shying away.

They separated and even after less than thirty seconds, they were breathing hard, the dark blue of John's eyes almost entirely consumed by his pupils.

"Are we going to do this _now_?" he asked, half in disbelief, but he was smiling.

"I can't think of a better time."

John grinned and seized Sherlock's mouth once more.

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**I haven't decided yet whether I'll just imply that the sex happened or if I'll add another smut chapter here. So that can be up to all of you!**

**Please let me know what you think, and whether you want that smut (32)!**


	30. Chapter 29: Short-Man Complex

**So the vote was unanimous, you all want sex. Perverts. XD**

**Just like with the last smut chapters, there will be two, and I am posting them at the same time. So, without further ado, let there be rough sex!**

**Well, more like rough foreplay in this chapter. ;D**

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John had a lot to think about, but somehow, he didn't mind Sherlock trying to distract him from it all. Sherlock did have a point. John should probably enjoy Sherlock's company while he knew he could—though he was still vehemently positive that he was going to stop Sherlock from dying. But still, John couldn't complain about a little sex in between.

So John let his hand fist hard in Sherlock's hair and run his tongue against Sherlock's bottom lip, eliciting a moan that coaxed Sherlock's mouth open enough that John could plunge his tongue inside deeply.

They hadn't actually slept together since that first time. They hadn't had the time since then, really, and neither of them had really been in the mood, but the desperation they both displayed now showed they both had been missing it more than they figured.

But John found things were different now. Because when they opened their eyes, somehow at the same time, the energy between them wasn't strictly sexual anymore. There was _romance_ there now, something that had been almost entirely absent their first time. Which hadn't been a problem, really, but maybe romance was exactly what they needed at the moment.

Maybe they didn't need to _shag_ at all, and 'making love' really was going to be the right way to describe it this time.

Because when they looked at each other, they separated—not much, since their noses and foreheads were still pressed together—but kept their eyes rapt onto one another's, and John saw in Sherlock's eyes emotion like he never really had before. Maybe it was because of his admission from earlier—Sherlock _loved_ him!—but whatever it was, it warmed John to his core to see it in Sherlock's face.

But intermixed with the good, there was something else in Sherlock's face too. Something not so positive.

And maybe it was Sherlock's deducing skills, or maybe it was just that in that moment, John felt he and Sherlock were nearly connected, understanding each other without really trying, but Sherlock answered John's unasked question.

"I was so frightened, John. I never thought I could be so scared in my life."

"But I'm right here," John assured him, rubbing his thumb against Sherlock's cheekbone.

"But what if he'd killed you? God, I don't know what I'd've done."

"You don't have to think about that because I'm right here."

Sherlock just barely smiled. "You know, human emotions aren't nearly as unpleasant as I figured they'd be."

John laughed. "I think human emotions are fantastic, personally."

"Well you _would_, wouldn't you?"

John rolled his eyes.

"But I'm being serious though," Sherlock said. "I guess… Mycroft raised me half my life, and he's under the impression that caring is not an advantage."

"Well he's an idiot then," John said steadily. "He's wrong, that's all I have to say on that."

"Are you sure?"

"Well you wouldn't be about to shag me if I weren't, now would you?"

Sherlock grinned. "You're right, caring is going quite well for me at the moment… but what about earlier? With Moriarty?"

John was quiet again. "Because if you hadn't cared, you'd have picked option one?"

Sherlock was quiet, but then nodded after a moment.

"I really can't tell you if you picked correctly. But it's too late to regret it. So in the meantime, you have me. Does that feel worth it?"

It wasn't even a trick question. He genuinely wanted to know.

Sherlock's eyes shone with warmth once more. "Yes, I think that's worth it. More than worth it. I'm just wondering if my opinion is skewed by the fact that you've gone and made me fall in love with you."

Hearing Sherlock say it again was even better than the first time, if that was even possible. John was smiling and blushing at the same time, and he watched as Sherlock got smug at the reaction. Him and his constant lust for John's embarrassment. John composed himself as quickly as he could with Sherlock's lips barely a centimetre from his own. "It could be skewed, yeah," John agreed. "But skewed or not, you've got yourself a horny man in your bed, one that's completely fallen for you, just dying to get inside you, so you probably got the good end of the deal."

Sherlock's smile went mischievous and he invaded the space between them once more, kissing John harder than before. Leaning forward until John was forced to lie back onto his pillow and Sherlock was on top of him, and their hard pricks were creating delicious friction between them.

John's romantic mood was being rapidly replaced with a fully horny one, meaning that his grips were getting wilder and harder and his kisses were turning to bites. John noticed that Sherlock reacted well to it, though, seeming more aroused by John's aggressiveness than when they were just kissing sweetly.

The fact that Sherlock actually liked John's roughness only made the need to be harsh with Sherlock worse, and soon he couldn't let Sherlock be on top any longer. He shoved at Sherlock, just barely not seeming mean in the action, but as Sherlock wasn't a sensitive boy, he didn't look like he had hurt feelings. He just rested with his knees on either side of John's lap, watching John to figure out why he'd pushed him away.

John was able to stand up and he pulled Sherlock up too, roughly undressing him. Sherlock was left completely naked while John was still clothed and that fact made him smile evilly. Sherlock, all exposed, because John made him that way. It was about the only way _to_ expose Sherlock, so John would take what he could get.

Then he paused. Sherlock had a look in his wide eyes like he was nervous again, and the Dom in John came out more, excited by the apprehension.

"Do you trust me?" John asked, his voice coming out much more low and gravelly than he intended.

Sherlock didn't even hesitate. He nodded, even though the anxiety in his face increased at John's words.

John didn't want to _scare_ him, per se, but he _did_ like Sherlock being on his toes, feeling a bit uneasy, so John didn't say what he was going to do, but turned Sherlock around slowly, gently, so he was facing the bedpost.

John wondered, for a moment, if he was going too far.

But this was Sherlock, he reminded himself. If he really didn't like something, he would say something. And even with that, Sherlock wasn't likely to object to something like this. He wasn't sensitive the way some people were. And, lastly, what turned John on turned Sherlock on, and what John was about to do would _definitely_ turn him on.

He went through all that logic in his mind in a few seconds and decided to just go for it.

So he picked up a belt from the ground and gently pressed on Sherlock's upper back, bending him down. When his back was nearly parallel with the floor, he walked around, and Sherlock was looking up at him, the excitement in his eyes definitely brighter than the fear. He was clearly curious about what John had in mind. His eyes flicked to the belt, but he didn't regard it with too much wariness.

John then lifted Sherlock's hands, resting them against the bedpost, and tied the belt around them, holding Sherlock firmly in place. Maybe he'd have used the belt to mark up Sherlock's pretty white skin, but he really didn't know if Sherlock was prepared for something like that, so he'd keep that in mind to discuss later. He didn't feel comfortable doing that without talking about it first.

So he only tied up the hands—noticing there was conveniently a towel lain out on the ground where Sherlock stood, which would be helpful in case Sherlock came everywhere when John was done with him—and John walked back behind Sherlock, giving a satisfied smile at Sherlock's helpless stance. The only time John would ever be in control of anything in this relationship.

It actually worked rather well. It was almost like an unspoken agreement. John would let Sherlock boss him around, let him control everything in their lives, as long as when things got sensual, the roles reversed and John got to lead for once.

And John would not take this short time to get to boss Sherlock around for granted.

John let his hands run across Sherlock's smooth back, always a few degrees cooler than John. John reveled in the feel of it, and then let his nails dig in as his hands slid back down, getting a growl from the tied-up boy. John grinned and slapped Sherlock's arse, hard. Sherlock yelped and the smile widened. Oh, this was just too much fun.

But John's erection was nearly itching, needing to be surrounded by Sherlock's warmth, so after John quickly got rid of his own clothing, he got to work doing the one thing he couldn't neglect or do roughly: preparing Sherlock's opening. Even in his most threatening Dominant mode, he would feel terrible if he really hurt Sherlock. He wasn't _sadistic_, only in dire need of getting to be in control for once. In fact, if he hurt actually Sherlock, even on accident, he'd probably never forgive himself. So John was careful as he used lube and his fingers to work Sherlock's opening wide, probably working on it longer than actually necessary because he just didn't want to risk hurting the other boy.

There was another reason he took so long though. While he was at it, he wanted to find the prostate, which he'd found in some reading was a sensitive spot for men. He didn't quite know where it was, but he knew what to feel for and the general vicinity, so while he was poking around in there—literally—he felt for the bump.

When he found it, he rubbed it experimentally, and Sherlock gasped in a satisfying way, his breathing getting more rapid. The rest of the time he opened Sherlock up, he played with that bump, Sherlock's breathing getting more erratic each time he did until he was full-on moaning without John having entered him at all. Yes, John would have to keep that in mind for later.

Then he took his fingers out, and the part of him that was still sensitive, even through the fog of his temporary power over his roommate, told him he really needed to make sure Sherlock was still okay.

"You ready?" he grunted.

Sherlock didn't respond for a moment, and John got worried, so he walked around so he could meet Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock, however, did not look upset, just had his eyes screwed shut and was breathing really hard. He looked up at John blearily, as if he'd only just noticed he'd spoken because his actions had stopped, and then nodded enthusiastically.

John was surprised by Sherlock's response, but didn't need to be told twice. He walked around and, without further ado, plunged himself inside.

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**No suspense this time, go straight to the next smut chapter!**

**Let me know what you think (33).**


	31. Chapter 30: Emergency Brain Shut-Down

**Smut 2, Part 2.**

* * *

Sherlock actually didn't know how to describe how he was feeling—which was really saying something, because he had quite a wide and colourful vocabulary, great for describing basically any feeling that ever existed.

But he really was lost for an explanation as to quite how good John was making him feel.

For pretty much the first time, Sherlock wasn't just soaking in how John felt, excited because John was. Somehow, being tied and helpless beneath John's skilled hand, Sherlock was feeling his own pleasure, in no way connected to John's.

And it felt amazing.

His mind literally felt like it was shutting off and he didn't even care. He wasn't thinking, not even a little, about any of the mess that had just been thrown into his life. All he was feeling, all he even remembered, was John, and how John somehow knew exactly what to do to make Sherlock feel impossibly fantastic. He wasn't sure he knew how to say any words other than expletives and his own lover's name. Everything was warm and hazy.

And John hadn't even actually entered him yet. He hadn't even realised until he heard John through his daze.

"You ready?"

Sherlock looked up and John was standing in front of him—which seemed impossible, because his whole lower body was still shuddering with near-blinding pleasure.

John was asking permission. What, could he not hear Sherlock? Could everyone on the whole damn _floor_ not hear him at this point?

But, just to speed things up—and, honestly, he wasn't in a state of mind to think of anything cheeky to say anyhow—he nodded, giving John the okay to continue.

And immediately, John went behind him and, after a very brief pause that Sherlock could only assume was John putting on a condom, Sherlock felt himself fill and his already sensitive hole was exploding with sensation. He bit down on his cheek to keep from being too loud, but then, like John was now the one with the high-functioning brain, he held out another belt to Sherlock, hovering it over Sherlock's mouth (though it might also have been for John's own pleasure that he wanted Sherlock essentially gagged, but either way, it'd also quiet him down). He opened his mouth obediently and then bit down on the belt hard.

Then John, without needing any prompting, started to move, agonisingly slow at first. But it didn't matter what speed it was anymore, Sherlock was feeling only ecstasy. It couldn't get any better than it already was.

At least, that's what he thought until he figured out why John'd been going so slow. He had been looking for Sherlock's prostate with his prick.

And then he found it, and Sherlock yelled incoherently through his teeth, the sound getting past the belt at half volume.

And now John sped up, but continued to hit that spot over and over again. Sherlock literally felt like his senses were on overload. His ears were ringing, his vision was going blurry. The other four senses were making way for the _feel_, the only thing that mattered right now.

And again, Sherlock thought there was just no way for this to feel better than it already did, but again, John proved him wrong. This time, as he continued his onslaught, he would periodically slap Sherlock on his arse, or run his nails down his back. The stings of pain only increased the pleasure, making incomprehensible noises leave his mouth, intermingled with curses, mutterings of John's name, and growls. During one of the yells, the belt had fallen out of his mouth, and neither of them seemed to care enough to work at getting it back in.

This kept going and going, for either ten minutes or ten hours, Sherlock had no idea. And then there was tensing in his lower abdomen, and Sherlock knew he was going to come without his erection being touched at all.

Before everything had been going black, but now the room flashed white as everything in him spontaneously combusted. Sherlock wasn't sure what strangled noise left his mouth when it happened, but it must've satisfied John, because Sherlock felt John come inside of him, and he continued the thrusting so they could both ride out their orgasms together.

When John finished his final thrust, the ecstasy Sherlock was feeling was making way for shaky exhaustion. John must've known that was coming, because he quickly went over and untied Sherlock, then held Sherlock's arms with his own so he didn't fall over. John guided him to the bed and Sherlock sat, still feeling unsteady. He still couldn't breathe right, was still sucking in gulps of air like he'd recently been drowning.

And John's arms were around him, his hand running up and down his arm slowly, soothingly. Usually, Sherlock kept his arm around John, just because he desired control in most situations—but apparently during sexual escapades, that wasn't the case, because John's arm around his body in a supportive, kind way was exactly what he needed.

Sherlock eventually calmed down, but his mind was still strangely empty. It felt… well, ordinary. The things going through his mind were the things anyone might think after sex and he didn't even mind that.

So, instead of thinking of something clever to say, he just said, "That was bloody amazing."

He felt John's cheek lift as he grinned against Sherlock's temple.

"Was it?"

"God, yes."

John let out a laugh. "I've never heard you so inarticulate. You sound like me."

"I feel like my brain isn't working."

"Maybe that's a good thing. Don't you think your brain needs a rest every once in a while?"

"Maybe," Sherlock agreed, and then his eyes shut and he just reveled in the warmth of John next to him, his arms winding around John's waist subconsciously.

"I love you," John whispered into Sherlock's hair. He'd said it before, but never so bluntly. It made Sherlock smile.

"And I you," he replied. "More than I can actually say."

"Especially with your brain not functioning properly from my astounding sex."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I should never compliment you. You get all big-headed."

"Only because compliments from you are so rare."

"Then I should do it more?"

"Sounds like a good idea," John said, still smiling.

Sherlock's arms got tighter around John. "Whatever keeps you with me."

"I'll never leave, Sherlock."

"Even for someone better?" Sherlock was surprised at his own insecurity, but then again, he was feeling quite like an average person right now, so it shouldn't have shocked him.

"There's no one better," John said earnestly. "As long as you'll have me, I'm here."

"Then that might be a while, because I am absolutely sure, with one hundred percent accuracy, that I could never care for anyone else like this."

John's arms tightened around Sherlock. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

And like that, they both fell asleep.

* * *

**Hope that pleased all you little nasties out there. (Trust me, if I were the one reading this, not writing, I would've voted for smut too, so you aren't alone).**

**Let me know if it was to your liking in a review (34)!**


	32. Chapter 31: Pretending

**I'm neglecting the plot again, but I can't help it. I needed more Lestrade. Again.**

**But, on the bright side for all of you, I'm writing chapters quicker again. Though now that I said that, the next one will take a whole week, just watch.**

**Anywho, here you go.**

* * *

It was ten in the morning when there was a knock at the door.

The only person it really could've been was Greg, so John called loudly enough to get through the door, "We're starkers!"

"Yeah, I figured as much, after the sounds coming out of here last night! Get some pants on and let me in!"

Somehow, Sherlock continued to sleep through this yelled exchange. Probably because he'd hardly slept at all in more than a week. He'd desperately needed the rest… especially after what John had put him through the night before. John grinned to himself at the thought.

So John carefully got out of bed, climbing over the sleeping Sherlock, who was mumbling in his sleep like always. John made sure Sherlock's naked form was covered up to his chest with the blanket before he found a pair of pants on the floor and tugged them on. Then opened the door a crack.

"Wha'd'you want?" he snapped, rather rudely, at Greg.

"Oh, would you get dressed?" Greg complained.

"You said to put on pants, so I did."

"That was more a figure of speech. Couldn't you grab a pair of trousers or something?"

"You're not going to leave me alone, are you?"

"No."

John rolled his eyes and shut the door again, found a pair of jeans, and then reopened the door more widely to admit him.

Immediately, Greg looked over to Sherlock's muttering form on John's bed. "Sherlock sleeps?" He hissed it, naturally getting quieter just at the sight of someone sleeping.

"Rarely," John replied, also lowering his voice.

"What, did you wear him out?" he asked with a cheeky grin.

"Oh, shut up," John murmured, feeling his face go hot. "What'd'you want?" he repeated.

"I just was thinking about Sherlock's explanation of this whole situation and noticing he never said anything about contacting the police about it."

Of course Greg would suggest that, since his dad was DI. He probably had some sort of faith in the police—he must've, considering he wanted to take over as DI when he got older—unlike Sherlock. And John nowadays too. He and Sherlock did their jobs for them often enough that he wondered if they were of any use at all.

"Sherlock can't very well involve the Yard when the reason this is happening to him at all is because he's The Notesman."

Greg grunted and rolled his eyes. "Right, I forgot. I don't get why they're trying to arrest The Notesman anyway. What they _should_ be doing is giving him a damn award."

"What about The Notesman's assistant, does he get an award too?" John asked with a snarky grin.

Greg smirked. "Sure. I mean, really, when I take over as DI someday, I'll let you and Sherlock work for me officially. Sherlock's bloody amazing at what he does. Pop's told me about some of the cases this Notesman has solved and even he's a little impressed by it."

"He has a funny way of showing it."

"It's alright though. You won't get caught if you haven't already. Plus, it seems Myc can get Sherlock out of anything."

"Myc?" John asked, an eyebrow up.

Greg flushed. "Oh, yeah. We got to talking yesterday after we left your room and I asked if I could call him Myc and he said it was okay." There was a pause. "I also asked him if he wanted to get coffee sometime. It kind of slipped out, I didn't mean for it to, but then he actually said yes. We're meeting at eleven."

John was a little baffled by Greg's interest in Sherlock's brother—but then again, everyone else on the planet was completely at a loss as to why John would like Sherlock, so maybe both he and Greg had weird taste.

Greg then looked over to Sherlock with his brows furrowed. "Is he talking?"

"Yeah, he always talks in his sleep."

"What's he say?"

"Usually just genius things. Random facts. But sometimes he'll talk about his feelings too, which is always entertaining."

"The fact that he even has feelings is still a bit of a surprise to me," said Greg.

John looked over to Sherlock's prone form with a little smile on his lips. "Sometimes it is to me too. But he really does, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. He isn't actually entirely different from any other bloke, minus the massive intellect."

Greg was quiet for long enough that John looked over to him. He looked a little amused.

"What?" John said defensively.

"When I met you," Greg said, "I already figured you wouldn't like Sherlock. I'd met him the day before and could tell he was a pain in the arse, so when I met you and you were such a nice guy, I figured Sherlock would grate on you. And here you are, a few months later, bloody in love with him."

John grinned. "Am I that obvious?"

"Erm, yeah, a bit."

"He's… I dunno. He's amazing. He really is. He's the type of person that makes miracles happen."

"I could see that," Greg agreed. "Not really my type though."

"What, you like them older? Government official types?" John teased.

Greg went pink again. "Dunno what happened there. See, I had this girlfriend that I was with for five years, and I was totally in love with her… and then, just less than a year back, I figured out she'd been cheating on me from day one. And ever since, I've had this weird aversion to girls. I thought it was an aversion to love in general, at first… but then I started noticing blokes… I don't really know what happened. Can heartbreak turn you gay?"

John shrugged. "Well, I was straight a couple months ago, and just last night a shagged a bloke. My sister, who always knows who's gay and who isn't, has always joked that I'm the straightest guy she ever knew. I'm just as confused as you in the sexual orientation department."

"Who knew it could be so complicated," Greg mused.

"Everything's complicated," John mumbled.

"Anyway," Greg said, "I guess I'll leave you alone. I need to take a shower anyhow."

"Right," John said, standing. Greg got up too. "And, hey, Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for being so understanding of Sherlock all the time. It means a lot to me, and he'd never admit it, but it means a lot to him too."

"You know, a lot of the time he's hard to like… but, then, other times, he's hard not to like."

"Yeah, I feel that way too sometimes," John said.

Greg nodded and went for the door.

"Have fun with _Myc_," John added mockingly as Greg went out the door. Greg stuck his hand back in to flip John the bird and then was gone.

John turned, ready to get back into bed with Sherlock, but then saw Sherlock with his eyes open, looking up at John amusedly.

"Oh, you're awake."

"Indeed," Sherlock said, "As I have been since you said 'we're starkers'."

John looked at Sherlock blankly. "You've been awake this whole time? But you were even muttering!"

"As if that's hard to imitate," Sherlock said, waving his hand lazily.

"So are you cross about anything I said then?" John asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"Strangely, no," he replied. "Maybe being called 'not entirely different from any other bloke' would've irritated me a month ago, but now…"

"But now?" John prompted.

Sherlock met eyes with John and John knew immediately Sherlock wouldn't finish his thought. "Come back to bed, will you? It's cold."

John smiled and said, "We've already both missed our first class today."

"Obviously missing class isn't a problem for me. I'll get perfect marks in everything anyway. And you only missed Biology, which you're actually quite good at. I think we'll be fine."

"But I've got to go to Chemistry at noon."

"Right, but for _now_..." Sherlock said alluringly, holding his arms out. _  
_

John considered for a moment, but then stripped off his jeans and climbed back into bed. Sherlock snuggled into his side, with his face in John's chest, immediately. It made John smile. He kissed Sherlock on the forehead.

They were quiet for a few minutes.

"But really," Sherlock mumbled into John's skin, "Lestrade likes _Mycroft_? What's to like?"

"I know, it's strange, yeah? Who would like a Holmes?"

John could almost feel Sherlock roll his eyes before they sank into comfortable silence.

* * *

**Pretty sure we're getting into the final stretch of this story here. The Final Problem is fast approaching... Even I don't know how this is going to end, so if you have any requests, let me know, because I'm, for the most part, making this story up as I go along, so there is definitely room for suggestions.**

**Please review (35).**

**Addition: I published this chapter weeks ago, but I just wanted to add something. I got a review of someone informing me that heartbreak can not, in fact, turn you gay, seeming insulted that I would write that. And I would like to say yes, I know that. Just because I wrote it in the story does not mean that I, myself, agree with it. Just so you all know. Anywho, back to the story. **


	33. Chapter 32: To Fight To Live

**Okay, I don't think this took a _whole_ week. But still, longer than I wanted. Here you go!**

* * *

Sherlock knew exactly what Moriarty was doing when they got through the rest of the semester and nothing at all had happened. Obviously, his plan was already perfectly fabricated, and he was confident it would work, so there was no reason to wait but one.

To drive Sherlock out of his mind with worry.

It might've worked before Sherlock started at university. In fact, it was beginning to work the day John was taken. Sherlock couldn't get the roof out of his head until he shoved it back into his palace, forcing it from his thoughts. But, actually, he hadn't taken it out of his palace since. He just wasn't worried. Sherlock had very different priorities than he used to, and though John hated it, Sherlock wasn't actually that concerned for his own life as long as John was okay. And if Moriarty seemed to be anything, he was a man of his word. John was safe as long as Sherlock died, so it seemed obvious to Sherlock that he had to die. Plain logic. Not in question.

John was furious with him about it. He tried not to let it get between them, but the three times it had been brought up, and Sherlock said again that he wasn't planning on doing anything about the plot to kill him, he had gotten angry again. His way of showing his anger at Sherlock was to deprive him of sex for a couple weeks, which was indeed unfortunate, but then John wanted it too and by the time he caved, their sex was even better from the building tension of a couple living together and having to pointedly deny their desire. One of the times, Sherlock was able to seduce John, and he'd been rather proud of himself, since John was almost always the one doing the seducing—though John was irritated at being seduced, so he'd been even less careful than usual with a belt.

They were not in the middle of one of their sex binges at the moment. Actually, they'd gone to dinner the night before and had a vanilla—but also quite satisfying—evening afterwards. They'd done it because now it was the week before final exams and John was already aware he was going to be nearly non-existent, studying whenever he could, so he wanted to do something together before that happened. Right then, they were at the library. Not an ordinary venue for them, but John had already been there, left early in the morning and been gone late into the afternoon, and Sherlock had the odd urge to see him. Sherlock still didn't like the fact that when John wasn't around, it bothered him, made it hard to focus. But at least there was an easy solution. Find John.

So Sherlock showed up, and John said that the reason he'd gone to the library in the first place was so Sherlock didn't distract him. Sherlock replied that he was only here to observe and that he wouldn't distract John.

"Bullocks," John said.

Sherlock was genuinely surprised. "What? I didn't come to distract you."

"No, but you're always a distraction to me. Just you being there."

"Strange, because I'm much more distracted when you aren't around."

John looked up from his work, setting his pencil down for the first time since Sherlock arrived. "Really?"

"Yes. In the beginning, you distracted me. But now that I'm used to your presence, you keep me rather focused."

"Even when I climb on your lap in the middle of your work and you're in bed with me within ten minutes?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Alright, not _then_, but otherwise, you are a great catalyst for thought. Your opinions on things make me think differently than I normally would. Your mere presence is soothing."

John had that soft eyed flattered look on his face again. "Is it really?"

Sherlock nodded, looking at the table for a moment, but then said, "But I see what you mean about me being a distraction for _you_ though. I already managed to get your mind off your work."

John rolled his eyes, looked down at his book, went for his pencil…

But then he dropped it. "Sod this. I've been doing it all day and I honestly have read this same sentence seven times in the past few minutes. I need a break."

Sherlock smiled. He hadn't _intended_ for that to happen, per se, but he'd been secretly hoping. "Then what will we do?"

"Dunno, but I'm tired of thinking." He started packing up his things, but then looked up again and said, "Have you been studying?"

"No," Sherlock scoffed.

And Sherlock had a moment's notice before John got angry. He got that look on his face that only came there when Sherlock's impending doom was somehow brought up. Sherlock hadn't even meant to bring it up that time.

"What, because you won't be alive to get the marks anyway?" asked John in a growl.

"That wasn't what I meant," Sherlock said, but he also didn't deny the statement. Well, this meant no more sex before break.

John looked down at his bag and started packing again, and Sherlock knew he was going to storm off, not saying where, and not appear in their room until tomorrow. John did get up and start walking out, and Sherlock followed quickly, chasing him down the stairs and out into the cold…

But then John stopped walking abruptly, and when he turned to look up at Sherlock again, his face had completely changed. The fury was completely gone, like it hadn't been there at all. And John just looked to be in pain. So much pain. His eyes were shining and he was biting his lip, either to keep in words or to keep in tears. Sherlock was actually shocked by the sudden change. He'd never seen John get _sad_ when this was brought up before.

"John?" Sherlock asked, a bit more sharply than he meant to.

"Why do you want to die, Sherlock?" John asked. His voice was rather steady, even when he looked like he was just holding back tears—John was always being brave, even with Sherlock, who he never really needed to pretend with.

Sherlock was also surprised by the question. "I don't _want_ to die, John. But it's the only way."

"No it isn't!" He said it louder than he meant to, and a few people looked over. He clenched his fists hard and was gritting his teeth. Then he continued more quietly, "I've seen you perform miracles over and over again. You say they aren't miracles, but I say bullocks. You can fix any bad situation, but now you aren't even trying. Why won't you _try_ to save yourself?"

"Because if I try, you might end up dead," Sherlock said simply. "I won't risk that."

"And I'd rather end up dead than have to live without you." John bit his lip when he said it, like he hadn't meant to. He added, "I know that's stupid, because we've only been together for a few months, but I don't want to have to live without you. You've become everything in my life. I don't know what the hell I'd do if you were gone. When I leave for the night, it's not because I'm too angry to see you, it's because I don't want you to see me cry. And I keep feeling like you just feel like you've malfunctioned, by falling in love with me, and you just want to die because when a machine doesn't run right, you get rid of it. Because it'd be better to be dead than to be stuck in love with me."

Sherlock paused for a moment, shocked enough he actually was speechless for a moment. When the hell did John make that assumption? How had Sherlock never noticed it? Why had John never brought it up? Sherlock didn't even know how to feel about it. Angry? Guilty? Sympathetic?

He picked the safest thing he could and went with comforting.

"John," Sherlock sighed, taking John into his arms. John didn't push away. "My dear, idiotic John. You've never been more wrong in your life."

"Then why?" John asked, his voice finally breaking now that his face was hidden in Sherlock's chest. Sherlock squeezed his arms around John tighter without really even meaning to. Just hearing him in pain made his body subconsciously react. It was odd how being comforting used to be difficult for Sherlock—nearly impossible to pull off, even—but now, with John, it came naturally.

"I already told you. I don't want you to die. The thought of you dying… I can't be the cause of that."

"But I just want you to try to live, Sherlock. All I need from you is that you _try_ to fix this. Because if you don't, and I just let you walk to your death, then don't you think I'll feel a bit to blame for you dying at all?" John was able to look up at Sherlock now, but stayed securely in his arms.

"So… you just want me to try to live?"

"Just fight for your life, Sherlock. That's all I ask. For _me_."

Sherlock wanted to argue, at first, but John's eyes were pleading, the blue shining in the light, showing the tears still lingering there. He sighed. "Okay. I will. But what am I supposed to do?"

"Nothing, for now, I suppose. But maybe act a little concerned that you might be dying soon."

"You _want_ me to be worried out of my skull?"

"Well, no… I dunno. Maybe a little, yeah. I think it scares me that you don't seem to give a fuck at all."

"I do, I suppose. I just would rather I die than you."

"And I would rather _I_ die than _you_."

"We're at an impasse then."

John sighed. "I suppose so. But I'd prefer neither of us die. We could finish off school and get a little flat in London. Right in the center!"

Sherlock smiled at the excitement in John's eyes and never in his life felt enthusiastic about something so ordinary. Maybe he really did need to fight to live, because he had something worth fighting _for_. Sherlock would just have to keep that future flat in his mind, where he and John could be together, with nobody to bother them. Just he and John, forever. Sherlock's smile widened.

"I love you," Sherlock said, the words coming out before he meant them to.

John grinned. "Yeah, I know. So prove it." Then he got on his toes and placed a quick peck on Sherlock's lips, and then grabbing his arm and tugging it.

"Where're we going?" Sherlock asked.

"Who the hell cares? I don't want to study, and you're here with me. Anywhere."

Sherlock didn't mind the sound of that.

* * *

**So I've got this little idea in my head where, during winter break, Sherlock goes and meets John's family, stays with them for Christmas. Would anybody be interested in seeing that or should the next chapter just be after break? Please let me know, because I won't work on the next chapter until I know if anyone's interested in that.**

**Also, I haven't gotten any requests for what should happen! I really do want to hear what people want to see, because I'm honestly a tad stuck on what exactly I want to happen. I have ideas, but I don't know which direction to go in, so help me out, folks!**

**Anywho, please review (36)!**


	34. Chapter 33: Pleasantries and Invitations

**Much like the smut, the vote was unanimous. All want Christmas Johnlock goodness. I planned just one chapter, but as my chapters are between 1,000 and 2,000 words, that was going to be really rushed, so I decided to make it several. And this is more of leading up to it than the actual night anyway. There might be two more Christmas ones, or even three. Depending one what you guys seem to want. If you'd rather just have one, let me know at the end of this. This does give me extra time to actually consider how I will end this story though... **

**I also realised this was a chance for more Mystrade, as one reviewer suggested. So I am making it happen. **

**Anywho, enjoy!**

* * *

John was sitting on his bed, relaxing. Finals were done. In celebration, Sherlock had allowed him to keep their door open. John was feeling so good about the semester being over he wanted to be social, and Sherlock must've been happy too, to not have a complaint about the door being wide open. John was done packing his things for break. His mum was going to pick him up soon. Sherlock said that Mycroft was going to have to pick him up too. Mostly, John was hoping mum and Mycroft wouldn't show up at the same time. Her meeting Sherlock would be strange enough, but meeting both Holmeses at once sounded nothing short of petrifying.

At the moment, Greg was sitting in the room with them and John had just asked if he was packed and ready for holidays.

"I have to stay an extra week," he told them. "Part of being sub-warden. Plus, I have my car, so I'm not getting picked up. What're you two doing for Christmas?"

"An awkward dinner with mum and Harry, like always," John said. John didn't mention that sometimes, when John was in high school, they would have friends over. He didn't plan to breach the 'mum and Sherlock getting to know each other much' thing quite yet. He didn't like the sound of it. In fact, he was rather hoping Sherlock would be gone before his mother arrived.

"You?" Greg asked.

"Christmas," Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Do I seem like the type to celebrate such things? In fact, does _Mycroft_?" He brought his brother up mockingly, to bother Greg, and it did. They'd gone on that coffee date and Greg never divulged how it went because he refused to say anything in front of Sherlock and Sherlock wouldn't leave John be long enough to hear about it, but John was painfully curious. Mycroft on a date was stranger than the thought of Sherlock on one had been to John in the beginning.

Greg talked past his blush though. "If there's something I learned about Myc, it's that he's much more fond of such things than he pretends to be."

"Has he fooled you into thinking he's fond of anything?" Sherlock asked dryly.

"Yes, the same way you've _fooled_ me into thinking the same about you."

"You know, you really shouldn't talk about me like I'm not here."

All three of them looked around and saw Mycroft was suddenly in the doorway.

"Oh, Myc, hey," Greg muttered, carding his fingers through his hair nervously.

John watched Mycroft carefully, trying to be deductive like Sherlock, but his face hardly changed at all. There was a little smile. "Gregory," he said with a nod. "Sherlock," he said, "Are you ready?"

"Yes, but I thought I was meeting John's mother."

John's stomach sank into his toes. "You are?" John asked, two octaves higher than he meant to.

Sherlock looked amused. "You don't want to introduce your boyfriend to her?"

John gulped. John actually planned to follow his sister's lead and stay firmly in the closet on this one. Partially because of being with a guy being a little embarrassing for him still, but also because that guy was _Sherlock_. Not the type you wanted to take home to meet the parents.

"Erm, no, not really," John said. John thought Sherlock might actually get insulted, for a moment, until he remembered who he was talking about. Sherlock wasn't easily insulted.

Sherlock just looked more amused than before, like he knew that was coming. Probably, he'd noticed John'd been kind of nervous ever since he started waiting for his mum to arrive and had guessed why ages ago.

"I get it," Sherlock said. "I can be out of here before she arrives, if you prefer."

And John should've been happy at the suggestion and started pushing Sherlock out the door, but now that Sherlock was offering, he felt bad. It sounded like he was ashamed of Sherlock, which of course he wasn't. He thought Sherlock was amazing. But the question was, would mum feel the same?

Unlikely.

But then, John's mind was made up for him, because he heard down the hall, "I'm looking for John Watson!"

John groaned. "Ugh, _mum_!" He stood up and was not surprised Greg was trying not to laugh, but was in fact a little at the fact that both Sherlock and Mycroft were donning smirks about it as well. John walked over to the door, waving his arm. "Mum, here! No need to ask around!" She was asking _Anderson_, of all people, Harry tailing behind her. Harry'd cut her hair really short since last time John saw her, making her look more butch than ever before. How mum didn't notice the truth by now was kind of beyond John. Maybe mum was oblivious enough that she wouldn't notice anything between John and Sherlock either.

Mum stood in the door and looked excited that the room was so full.

And then John witnessed a strange thing. Something Sherlock had told him about, but John didn't really believe until he saw it.

He watched Mycroft be perfectly pleasant. Not creepy or cold or anything like that. He looked over to John's mum and said, "Mrs. Watson! What a pleasure! I'm Mycroft, Sherlock's elder brother." They shook hands and mum looked so _thrilled_ at his manners. Sherlock'd said that Mycroft was capable of being charming, if he so chose, but John never thought he'd see it. Maybe this was what Greg's coffee date had been like with him.

Mum and he chatted for a moment, and then Greg introduced himself as well.

Then her eyes moved around the room. "And you must be Sherlock!" she said, meeting eyes with him. "John said you were tall and wore a big coat. One of the many things he said about you!"

"_Mum_…"

"What, you did," Mum hissed.

And then John witnessed another strange thing. Something Sherlock had not told him about, and John still didn't really believe even after he saw it.

He watched _Sherlock_ be perfectly pleasant. Not grudgingly or sarcastically like he had one day to get Sally, Anderson, and Greg to go away. Like, actually nice. He stood up, real smile in place, and also shook hands with mum. "Correct, that's me," Sherlock said. "It's really great to meet you. Hope John didn't say anything too horrible about me."

John and Greg were both gaping. Mum didn't notice.

"Oh no, not at all! Though I _am_ curious about these deductive skills he's mentioned."

John was petrified at the thought, but then Sherlock amazed him again. "Maybe another time," Sherlock said.

Wow. He had a chance to brag and didn't. It seemed impossible. So Sherlock was literally good at everything, even pretending not to be himself, if he had to be.

"Another time like over the holidays?" Mum asked.

"What?" John enquired sharply.

"Well, Harry's having her friend Claire over on Christmas. And I was thinking, I've heard so much about your friends, why don't you have them over? Sherlock and Greg. Unless you have other plans?"

_Oh no_, was all John could think at first.

Greg spoke first. "My pop always works on Christmas. It's never an ordeal. I'm free."

John and Sherlock looked at each other for a moment. Sherlock and John, now that they didn't get in a row every time Moriarty was mentioned, had discussed what Sherlock would do over the break about the whole thing. John was so scared that Sherlock was going to disappear over the holidays and John'd never see him again, and wanted to be with him as much as he could manage. Sherlock was worried that if he was around John too much, meaning at John's house, John's family might get caught in the crossfire. They'd never come to a complete agreement, but they'd both agreed—Sherlock very grudgingly—that Sherlock'd stay near Mycroft. Though John wasn't sure yet if he liked Mycroft, he thought his obvious power and nosiness would keep Sherlock safe—as much as he could be from a force like Moriarty. So John really wanted to discuss this before agreeing to anything, but he didn't know how to without it seeming weird.

Sherlock was the first to speak. "It's only me and Mycroft together at Christmas. I'd feel bad leaving him alone."

Mum turned to Mycroft. "You can come too, dear. I love guests."

"She really does love guests," John muttered, not knowing what else to say, or even think. Harry and Claire, John and Sherlock, and Greg and Mycroft. A few very strong personalities. More than one sibling rivalry. All at the same dining table, all closeted. And one—yes, oblivious, but not stupid—mother. This was all just a recipe for disaster.

Now Sherlock and Mycroft looked to each other, obviously having a communication only they could understand. They hadn't discussed with Mycroft their plan to keep Sherlock near him, but surely Mycroft knew. He knew _everything_. But, unlike Sherlock, who always deduced, Mycroft did that _and_ completely spied on people. They might've had a camera in their room, for all John knew. He shuddered at the thought.

John looked to Greg, who actually looked a little terrified now. How nervous Greg got about Mycroft never ceased to be amusing.

"I don't have anything else planned," Mycroft said. "That sounds delightful."

Mum looked about ready to jump for joy. "I haven't had a dinner this big in ages! This'll be wonderful, won't it John?"

John wanted to throw up at the thought, but he managed to say, "Yeah," weakly.

Then Mycroft, Greg, and Sherlock helped John get all his stuff packed into the car, and then Greg, John, and Harry helped Sherlock get his, and the whole time, John was just keeping himself from having a heart attack.

John and Sherlock managed to get a moment alone.

"You were good with my mum. Thanks," John said.

"I was going to say 'no problem', except it was rather a hassle. And so boring. I could write an essay about all I saw about her in less than five seconds!"

"Why do I even like you?" John said, feeling nauseous again.

"Oh, calm down, will you?" Sherlock said. "You're turning green. And you all call _me_ dramatic."

"If you were thinking about hosting you and Mycroft for your mother, you'd be green too."

"I can behave."

John nodded. It'd be fine, he kept telling himself. Sherlock was showing he knew how to behave right now, so he couldn't even say it wasn't true.

He'd behave on Christmas too and it'd all go perfectly.

But somehow, John had little hope that was true.

* * *

**I feel bad for John. I'd be having heart failure too. **

**Okay, so this story just today got to 100 reviews and I was so excited! None of my stories have gotten that high (though one of my Merthurs is up in the eighties). Thank you all so so so so soooo much for all the love! I am also at over 100 followers on this story, and again, thank you! You guys are all awesome and I am so grateful that you're reading this. As I am in the process of publishing my original novels, knowing people like my writing style is important, since my books may well be out there soon! It's why I started FanFiction in the first place, so I know people will like my books if I publish them. If people like something I write for fun and put very little effort in, then maybe people will like the books I've put hundreds of hours into! Anywho, I love you all. A lot. **

**As a reward, I'm going to stop counting all the review requests at the end of each chapter. Also because I lose count every time now, but still. I still will request reviews, however, because I love them. Plus, I want you to tell me if I should just do one Christmas or if two or three is acceptable. I might even add a teensy bit of Holiday Smut...**

**Wow, that was long. That is all. :]**


	35. Chapter 34: Some Lecherous Texting

**Welcome to Christmas in July! People seem really enthusiastic about this whole holidays ordeal, so I won't rush it. I guess I figured people were tired of me inching around the actual plot, but it seems people like my fluff. But anyway, I don't know how many chapters there will be of it. We'll see. Then things will end pretty quickly when they get back to school, I think… I'm 98% positive this story won't make it over fifty chapters, but hey, I didn't think it was going to get past twenty in the beginning.**

**But anywho. Let Christmas begin!**

* * *

Sherlock still couldn't completely believe this was happening. He was going to have a Christmas dinner. That hadn't happened to him in nearly ten years. And, in fact, all the times it happened when he was young were now deleted from his mind, deemed unimportant ages ago. So he didn't know what to expect. Maybe he needed to stop deleting so many things. One of these days, he might delete something important.

And, on top of the dinner, Mrs. Watson invited them to stay for two nights, the night of Christmas eve and of Christmas day. Well, John said she'd more said it like 'Stay as long as you like! I love company!', but Mycroft said he didn't want to stay more than a day.

Sherlock had mentioned Lestrade would be there the whole time they were and, soon after, conceded that a night or two wouldn't hurt.

He and Mycroft were now sitting in the same room, Mycroft silently looking at a newspaper. Sherlock had his knees tucked into his chest and his arms wrapped around them.

"What are we waiting for?" Sherlock asked, anxious to leave this stupid, dark, dull flat of his brother's. He'd been packed to leave for three days now. Maybe Christmas seemed stupid to him, but the thought of seeing John again had him, to say the very least, eager to get to the Watson's.

"We're not expected for another three hours, Sherlock."

"And it'll take two hours to get there!"

"Meaning, if you examine your math, that we don't leave for another hour."

"Mycroft, they won't mind if we're early."

Mycroft flicked his paper down so he could glare at Sherlock. "Your manners are inexcusably poor, you know that?"

Sherlock groaned, thrusting his legs and arms out so he was in spread eagle on the chair. "_Manners_! Manners are, without a doubt, the dullest things I've ever experienced."

"And a necessity," Mycroft added, putting the newspaper back in front of his face.

"Fine," Sherlock muttered, getting up and stomping to his temporary room. He'd've gone outside just to get away from Mycroft, except John made him _promise_ to stay near his brother whenever he could. And Sherlock fully intended to break that promise, originally, but now that he was away from John, he couldn't bring himself to. Every time he almost left the house over break so far, he'd see John's reprimanding face in his mind, and he'd decide against it.

He texted John, something he'd been doing almost constantly since he got home two weeks ago to keep himself sane.

Mycroft won't leave early. I've asked him seventeen times. – SH

It's okay. I'll see you soon. – JW

Not soon enough. Do you understand how boring this flat is? – SH

Oh yes, the flat of a fabulously wealthy politician must be incredibly dull. – JW

Exactly! – SH

That was sarcasm, Sherlock. – JW

Sherlock pursed his lips at his phone.

I bet you anything your house is more interesting. – SH

It's small. Really small. My family's poor, so it's nothing special. – JW

What's wrong with that? – SH

Doesn't that imply it isn't interesting? – JW

No. You have an odd view of what makes something intriguing. If small and poor were qualities that made things dull, you'd be the dullest creature imaginable. - SH

I'm going to get you for that later. – JW

Sherlock grinned, feeling heat in his groin at the threat.

By all means. Get back at me in any way you want. – SH

Sherlock let that suggestive reply linger for a moment before sending another.

Now do you want me to come early? – SH

A bit, yeah. – JW

Should I ask again? – SH

Probably not. You'll just make him angry. – JW

Damn it. Fine. – SH

Well, I need to tidy up the house a bit with mum. – JW

How nice of you. I never clean with Mycroft. – SH

Because you're a dick. – JW

Never said I wasn't. – SH

They bantered for a bit like that, teasing one another. Sherlock smiled down at his phone for a long time at the stupid things John sent. Then he sent:

Alright, I need to shower. – JW

Good. Think about me. – SH

Absolutely. And maybe, sometime during your stay, we can take one together. – JW

Sherlock licked his lips and took a deep breath.

I like the sound of that. – SH

Good. See you soon. – JW

Sherlock was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Not enough time had passed with the texting. God, an entire _half_ _hour_! How was he supposed to wait that long with absolutely nothing to do? It was dreadful.

Then his phone vibrated again. Who would that be if John just said bye?

But he checked and it _was_ John.

Okay, I'm thinking about you. – JW

It took Sherlock a moment to understand what this meant.

You mean you're texting me from the shower? – SH

Quite on accident, I brought my phone in here with me. And then, also on accident, here I was thinking about you, and now I've gotten completely hard. – JW

Sherlock's breathing quickened just barely and he gnawed on his bottom lip as a very vivid mental picture of what John must look like now flicked through his head.

So NOW you want me to come early. – SH

No pun intended. – SH

God, yes. But you can't, so I guess I'll just sit in here and finish myself off. Pretending I'm inside you. – JW

"Oh, god, _John_," Sherlock muttered, feeling himself getting hard. Sherlock had to get to where John was or he was going to actually fall over dead. He knew that now. He _had_ to.

Please tell me we're going to fuck soon. – SH

Since you asked so nicely, with that please and all, I might be able to make that happen. – JW

Please. – SH

Sherlock added it because John loved the whole begging thing, and Sherlock did anything John liked. He didn't care if it was desperate, he just liked to turn him on any way he could.

Two pleases? This is definitely happening. – JW

It was funny to Sherlock that, while John was the dominant one in bed, Sherlock still managed to play him like a fiddle much of the time, knowing exactly what to say to get what he wanted. Not that John needed to know he was being played. John was much more pliable when he thought he was in control. Whether or not he actually was in control was entirely irrelevant.

And I'm going to fuck you until you want to scream, but you won't be able to make a noise. And I'll punish you if you do. – JW

Sherlock's entire body shuddered. Another mental picture of John flashed in his mind, gloriously naked, steaming water running down his skin, turning it pink, his golden hair darkened and sopping down his forehead, his eyes dilated with lust… But now Sherlock was there too, bent over, his head pressed against the tile as John mercilessly pounded inside of him, and Sherlock had to bite his cheek until it bled to keep quiet or someone might hear, and then John would make him regret it…

Sherlock was breathing nearly as hard as he might have been were it really happening. His hand was, without him even realising it, inching down into his pants…

A harsh knock on the door. "Sherlock! Time to go!"

Sherlock shook himself, jumping up off the bed and looking at his clock. Oh. A half hour passed by really quickly, somehow. Sherlock grabbed all his things and rushed out his bedroom door.

Mycroft looked him up and down a moment, probably assessing his rosy cheeks and too bright eyes.

"Been texting John?"

Sherlock kept his face and voice even. "No. Why?"

"Because your zip is down."

Sherlock looked down and, indeed, Mycroft was right. When Mycroft turned around, he pulled it up quickly.

The sooner he got to John, the better.

* * *

**Another chapter I had more fun with than I probably should have. By the way, I've now finished my other Johnlock, called _Deletion_ (which, me being a troll, I was totally referencing in the first paragraph of this chapter), meaning it will no longer be distracting me from writing this. Which is good. I might be like I was in the beginning, getting out a chapter or two a day again. But don't hate me if that doesn't happen. :] **


	36. Chapter 35: The Neighbour

**Okay, so when I said I'm taking my time with this, I'm reallllly taking my time with it. Hope I don't annoy anyone by it, but I realised there's just so much to write and everyone who reviewed said they liked the idea and that I should do as many Christmas chapters as I can, so I'm milking out every little idea I have. Heh. Heehee. Hope you like it. *sheepish smile***

* * *

John had kept himself from telling his mum "I told you so" a couple dozen times since he got back. In fact, he'd said nothing at all about his marks, and she hadn't asked, because she'd been too excited about the impending visitors. Honestly, going to school was more important to him than it was to her. But, eventually, she'd ask, and he'd be able to tell her that the classes that were too 'challenging' for him were actually no trouble at all, and that he'd gotten near perfect marks. That he wasn't as stupid as everyone supposed. That _Sherlock_ _Holmes_, of all goddamn people, had more faith in his ability to pass his classes than his own mum.

Probably he wouldn't say any of that other stuff, and just tell her he did really well, but he liked to think he was going to shove it in her face a little, after her telling him over and over that this major was too hard for him and nearly scaring him into changing it.

At the moment, John was walking around his room in a towel, looking at the latest text from Sherlock.

I'll have you know I'm in the car with Mycroft and you keep making me hard. – SH

He almost laughed out loud at the thought of _that_, especially considering that Mycroft doesn't miss much, so he probably noticed.

Good. Serves you right for being a prat all the time. – JW

Oh, being petty, are you? Two can play at that game. – SH

I'm very aware you can be petty. You do it all the time. – JW

Hey, what if I want to punish you back for all these rude things you say to me? – SH

John bit his lip, surprised that, just like in the beginning, the thought of Sherlock in control for once excited him slightly. He figured he was far too obsessed with the high he felt when bossing Sherlock around to relinquish the power to him, even for a night, but maybe he'd have to try it sometime.

I'd ask you how you'd punish me, except I really need to not have a boner when I leave my room in a minute here, so you'll just have to show me sometime. – JW

I'm going to remember that request, you know. And keep this message as a reference when you deny it. – SH

I don't doubt it. See you soon. – JW

Not soon enough. I'm so BORED. Embarrassingly having an erection while in the car with my brother is better than sitting here doing nothing at all. – SH

John smiled affectionately down at the text, and he pointedly ignored the sour feeling in the back of his throat that came with his afterthought behind every conversation with Sherlock now: You don't know how much longer you'll have him for.

John wished he could not care the way Sherlock did. He wished he could push his worries back and completely ignore them. Maybe he could make a mind… well, he wouldn't make it a _palace_. Maybe a beach. That'd be nice. Then, when he remembered Moriarty's threat on Sherlock's life, he could shove it deep under his mind ocean to rest in pieces with his mind shipwrecks and get gnawed to bits by his mind sharks. And he could remember instead, in this mind beach of his, that Sherlock has done the impossible countless times for John to see and that, with that evidence, he should have faith in Sherlock's ability to fix this mess as well.

But John wasn't a genius the way Sherlock was, and he didn't think he could manage to create something that solid and literal with only his mind.

I love you. You know that, right? – JW

You don't actually think I'd have forgotten something you said to me, do you? And this you've said multiple times. – SH

I know you heard me say it, and that you remember. But do you believe me? – JW

The response took a moment longer than usual and John imagined he'd said one of those things that mildly perplexed Sherlock. Maybe he took longer to think of his answer, or maybe the answer itself was longer than usual.

Apparently, some of Sherlock's deducing skills had rub off on John, because the latter ended up being correct.

Yes, I believe you. If you can somehow believe that I love you, even when the evidence of my life says that's impossible, then surely I can believe a man whose first instinct is to love can love even someone like me. - SH

Someone like you… meaning brilliant and beautiful? Yeah, must be hard for me. – JW

You're much easier to like than I am. In fact, I don't know how anyone could not like you. You're more brilliant than me. – SH

I'm definitely saving that text for later. For the next time you call me an idiot. - JW

I didn't necessarily mean your mind, John. – SH

Well, I won't save that second text, so out of context it will sound like you mean my mind. Good enough for me. - JW

You're an idiot. – SH

John smiled again.

"Yeah, I know that look."

John jumped and grabbed onto his towel, which almost fell off his hips, at the sound of his sister's voice in the doorway. "Bloody hell, Harry! Learn to knock, yeah?"

"Who're you texting?" Harry asked, stepping into the room without invitation.

"Why d'you care?"

"Because you've got a girlfriend, obviously."

John swallowed. "Why d'you say that?"

"Because I know what young love looks like, moron. And that's written all over your face. So why didn't you invite her over for dinner? You thought mum wouldn't approve of her?"

John almost wanted to laugh at that one. Yeah, she probably wouldn't approve much, especially considering Harry was on the completely wrong gender.

"Wow, that bad, huh?" Harry continued. "Just tell me it isn't Gina again. I heard she went to Westwood too."

"Oh, god no," John said, unable to hold his silence on that one. "Somehow, I haven't even seen her since I started. Thank god."

She sat on the bed then.

"You're not going to leave me be to get dressed, are you?"

"So have you done what I asked?"

John was confused enough that he forgot to tell Harry to get the hell out. "What?"

"I told you on your first day to get into loads of trouble for me. Have you gotten into trouble?"

And John couldn't help it. He barked out a slightly hysterical laugh before he could bite it off, and still he was chuckling. "Actually, yeah, I've gotten into a bit, yeah."

Her eyebrows were nearly lost in her hair they were up so high. "What'd you do?"

And John figured the best way to get out of this one was to tell the truth. So he said casually, "Oh, you know, just put unconscious bodies on Scotland Yard's doorstep. Held crooks at gunpoint. Got kidnapped by a criminal mastermind. The usual."

Harry stood up, rolling her eyes. "Fine, don't tell me, but I'll figure it out eventually." And she walked out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

He decided to actually get dressed then, and then sat on his bed and looked at his last text again, which was Sherlock calling him an idiot.

You're the idiot, because you're not here yet. – JW

Don't be so sure. – SH

John looked down at the text, a big smile on his face. And then the doorbell rang. He jumped off his bed and sprinted to the door.

"Wow, excited?" Harry asked him, but he ignored it.

And then he opened the door and there he was, in his usual dark suit and blue scarf with his stupidly beautiful face with his stupid prominent cheekbones and stupid unbelievable eyes and his stupid luscious lips.

"Sherlock, I could kiss you."

"Probably unwise," said Mycroft before Sherlock could say anything, "seeing as your mother is coming to the door."

"True," John muttered, yanking Sherlock inside by his wrist, who looked to be carefully keeping in his excitement—but John could be see it in the glint in his eyes, because John was used to puzzling out how Sherlock was feeling. John looked to Mycroft, who was standing on the mat. "Oh, you come in too, Mycroft."

"Thank you." Mycroft had this long-suffering look on his face as he stepped over the threshold, brushing off his beige Italian suit as if there was a speck of anything on it. Then he looked around, seeming to think he was doing so slyly. "So… has Gregory arrived yet?" he asked.

John grinned knowingly. "No, not yet. Should be here any time though."

Mycroft nodded stiffly, and then mum came into the room and started chatting with him excitedly. Honestly, he hadn't seen mum so happy in ages. She really did adore company.

John took both their suitcases and stuck them in the room they'd be staying in—their house was small, but mother managed to turn any room possible into a guest room, so there was enough for Greg to have a room and for Sherlock and Mycroft to share one (though Lestrade was actually staying in Harry's room, and she was on the sofa, but mum wasn't planning on telling Greg that). John was hoping he'd be able to sneak Sherlock into his own bed at least one night.

"Oh, by the way, dear," added mum to John, when Mycroft and Sherlock were momentarily distracted by bickering with each other over whether or not it was stupid for Mycroft to have brought an umbrella when they know they won't be spending time outside, "I invited a friend of mine over for dinner tomorrow. Since you and Harry have your friends already…"

"Oh, yeah, no problem, mum," he said absently. Mum's friends were nice, usually, so he didn't care much.

Then he remembered who his company was. Did he want another innocent bystander there in case things went awry? He tried not to think about it.

"She told me she's stopping by tonight to bring over some nibbles she made. Actually, probably any time now."

And, so on cue it made John wonder if she actually planned it, there was another light knock at the door. Too light to be Greg.

Mum opened the door. "Hello there!" she said fondly, giving her a hug.

Then John heard Sherlock blurt out, in a confused voice, "Mrs Hudson?"

John turned around to see that both the Holmes boys were looking at her in surprise.

Mrs Hudson looked up from her hug and her eyes got big. "Oh my, that can't be Mycroft and Sherlock!"

"You know each other?" mum asked, obviously thrilled by the new information.

"Mrs Hudson used to be our nanny," Sherlock said. "First ten years of my life."

John knew mum would be uncomfortable at the term 'nanny', since it implied that the Holmes brothers could afford a maid—but then again, with the posh suits they always wore, maybe that was obvious.

"My dears!" Mrs Hudson cried out, going over and wrapping one arm around each of them. And John was a bit surprised that both Sherlock and Mycroft didn't look annoyed by the hug. In fact, they both had these slightly foreign looks of fondness on their face for the woman. John had never asked much about Sherlock's childhood—other than the fact that his mother was killed—but he might make a point to now. "Sherlock, I trust you're staying out of trouble." She turned to mum. "This one, he's a troublemaker! You've got to watch out for him! Does experiments with the food, takes things apart to see if he can put it back together again. Oh, and Mycroft! I swear, when his father was locked up in his study for days on end, Mycroft was managing the whole estate on his own since he was no more than ten! They're both so clever." She patted their cheeks. "Well, I was just going to drop these biscuits off, but there's so much to catch up on! Come, come, let's go sit and chat!"

She dragged the two of them away, already knowing where the sitting room was.

"It's a small world, isn't it?" mum said.

"Tell me about it. What're the odds, yeah?"

"Sherlock doesn't actually do experiments on food, though, does he?" mum asked a moment later.

John bit his lip. "Erm… well… he'll be on good behaviour, he promised me."

Mum, for the first time, looked a bit nervous, but then she and John followed the other three into the front room, ready to get their ears talked off.

* * *

**I've been looking for a way to squeeze Mrs Hudson in for ages, and I couldn't figure one out, and then this epiphany came to me. I'm happy I managed it, since she was the only big character that hadn't been mentioned. Other than Irene, but... **

**What, I didn't say anything. Who's Irene? Is that even a thing? Tee. Heehee. **


	37. Chapter 36: The Eve of Disaster

**So I apologise for my ignorance, but I'm at a loss of how the grading system works in England (because, secret time, I am not from the UK). I've been looking it up for hours now and I still don't know how it works (and I even asked my friend from England and ****_she_**** didn't even know, and I also asked my sister who took a semester at Oxford, and SHE didn't know either! I know something about graduating with honours of different classes, but otherwise, zip. Nobody effin' knows!), so I am just going to pretend that grades/marks there are the same as they are here for the sake of my stupidity. If anyone wants to help me out and tell me how it works, then by all means, but for now, I'm just going to refer to grades/marks the way we do here—which is the A through F system where A is for Awesome and F is for Fuck-up. That is all. Thank you again for dealing with my lack of information.**

* * *

Sherlock was, again, forced to think about things he had long since deleted. He had almost entirely forgotten about the existence of Mrs Hudson in his childhood, since nothing she was a part of seemed important enough to keep. But, in truth, Mrs Hudson had been around more than either of his parents. His father he hardly remembered even without deleting him, for Sherlock'd been young when he died, but even before then, he'd heard from Mycroft he only left his study to eat and otherwise entirely ignored his children and wife. Supposedly, he had started to lose his mind near the end, not caring about anything but his aeroplane collection.

And though his mother had been quite attentive of her children, she also worked a great deal. Since Mr Holmes was the heir of a very large fortune, she hardly needed to, but she thought that living off the benefits of her absent—then later dead—husband was wrong. So, while she was away at work, Mrs Hudson was there. Mycroft actually knew her better than Sherlock, since Sherlock'd been ten when she left to get married, but Mycroft never spoke of her. Which probably meant he really was fond of her, because most of the time he only talked about things that upset him.

So Mrs Hudson reminisced on a childhood that Sherlock could only just barely recall, and it was odd, to say the least. Especially since most of the stories were about Sherlock—she was telling mostly things she found humourous, and probably stories about Mycroft didn't so often involve almost maiming the neighbour's cat.

Lestrade showed up not long after Mrs Hudson, and him being the social creature he was, fit in quite well, laughing along with everyone else at the stories she told. Sherlock was almost glad he couldn't remember much about her, because she probably always talked this much.

"Tell something about Myc," said Lestrade after a time. He was sitting next to him, with four people on a sofa made for three. Actually, Mycroft looked rather silly, squeezed between Sherlock and Lestrade, John on Sherlock's other side. Such a proper man, shoved on a couch with other young people. It was easier to remember that he was only twenty-five suddenly.

"Oh, well Mycroft isn't nearly as funny," she said, proving Sherlock's theory. "No offence, dear."

"None taken," Mycroft said, displaying one of his rare small smiles, even if it was a bit dry—but honestly, that's just what his smile looked like.

"He just wasn't the type to go experimenting on things like Sherlock. And he didn't usually try to guess people's whole life stories either, as Sherlock often did with me." She said that with a lightly reprimanding look on her face, and Sherlock wondered what he'd deduced about her that she hadn't liked hearing. And wondered how bad he'd felt about it, since he'd been so sentimental back then. "Mycroft was much quieter. Often took to working in his room, just like his father—though, if you don't mind me saying, you weren't quite as odd as your father. He read literature that was meant for people much older than him—but then again, so did Sherlock. These two made me feel stupid every day, they were so clever. Sherlock was only a child then, but he just knew so much. He could tell you anything about you, just by looking."

"I've heard a bit about that from John," said Mrs Watson. "But we still haven't seen it yet."

"And you won't," interjected John.

"But why not?" asked his mother, sounding a little like a whine even though she was still smiling (which seemed to be her only facial expression, actually).

"Because, trust me, it pisses people off. He sees everything, mum. Even things you don't want him to."

"Did he do that to you?" asked his mum.

"Yes," John said. "The very first time I met him, and I almost punched him for it."

"Yes, I remember you didn't like him much at first," she said, not seeming to think it uncouth to mention that with Sherlock sitting right there. Good thing Sherlock didn't care. "What changed?"

Everyone was looking at John, and Sherlock almost wanted to smile at how uncomfortable he looked. Probably, he was struggling to think of a way to say it that didn't make it sound like he was totally in love with him.

And oddly enough, the one who spoke up was Lestrade. "It's kind of the way with Holmeses, I'm finding," he said. "At first, their way of always being smarter than you can be annoying, but then you get to know them and it becomes one of their most endearing qualities. And there's a lot more to them than brains, though they like to pretend there isn't."

"Oh, I always felt that way too!" said Mrs Hudson, and Sherlock knew John had been saved. John gave a quiet sigh of relief and Mrs Hudson continued to babble on. Sherlock figured she'd get tired of talking about he and Mycroft, or everyone else would get tired of hearing it, but people seemed curious. Nobody minded talking about them like they weren't there, and even John's sister Harry joined the conversation eventually. Sherlock and Mycroft mostly stayed quiet, but Sherlock did listen, a little. It was kind of interesting, hearing what people had to say about you. Especially since the things were more positive than he expected. He'd never had people be fond of him before, and now there were several in the same room with him, chatting about it. It made him… well, he would never admit it aloud, but it flattered him, to know these people genuinely liked him.

They talked for a long time, until John's mother decided to just bring out little sandwiches and tea instead of making a full supper.

After a long, long while, the conversation moved away from the Holmes boys and onto John. John didn't seem to like that, and feebly tried to change the subject away from him, but nobody would have it.

"We were worried that getting him into uni would be hard," said John's mum. "Not that he didn't have the marks for it, but that… well, it's expensive, you know." She was obviously uncomfortable talking about her lack of funds, but plowed on anyhow. "But then, he got a scholarship for rugby! You know, we phoned sometimes, but we never talked much about rugby. How's that been?"

The reason John never talked about rugby, Sherlock knew, was because he paid very little attention to it. He still went to trainings and matches, obviously, but he put in as little effort outside of those things as possible. Sherlock hardly ever even thought about the fact that John was on the rugby team, since John hardly ever did anything pertaining to it. It was actually a bit of a mystery to him that he was still on the team at all.

"It's—erm—it's good. I guess."

"You guess?"

"I dunno, I like school more for my classes than for the rugby, honestly."

"Wow, liking uni for the classes. That's a first," Lestrade said. Everyone laughed at that.

"Oh," his mother said, slapping her hand to her forehead. "I never asked. You said you were doing well in your classes. Have you gotten your marks yet?"

Now John was trying not to look smug. "I know what I got, yeah. You know, A's." He said it as casually as he could manage, but he still sounded proud of himself.

Mrs Watson's mouth popped open. "_All_ A's?" John nodded. She actually jumped up and put her arms around him, nearly hitting Sherlock in the face with her flailing limbs. "Oh, I'm so proud of you! You know, he wants to be a doctor! My little surgeon."

Sherlock smirked, for he remembered hearing that she thought John was going to fail out of this major—or at least do poorly—and now he was mummy's little surgeon.

John managed to get the conversation away from him again by asking Lestrade about his classes. He didn't seem to be completely embarrassed by the attention like John, but he was certainly humble.

Humility. Boring.

Though, Sherlock was trying it out a bit, not mentioning that he didn't miss a single point in any of his classes and he hardly even went. But, if someone ever bothered to ask, he couldn't guarantee he wouldn't brag a bit. For him it didn't feel like that much of an achievement, since it'd taken almost no effort at all, but everyone else might find it impressive, and he was really starting to like this whole 'people like Sherlock' business.

Nobody did ask though, and eventually Mrs Hudson yelled, "Oh, look at the time!" and said she would see everyone tomorrow.

"Okay, everyone, get in bed, or Santa won't come."

John groaned. "Mum. We're not kids. We know there's no Santa."

Mum gasped. "Honey! Santa'll never give you a thing with that attitude."

Everyone dutifully played along with John's mother and went to bed. Sherlock didn't miss that Harry didn't move from the front room, meaning she was probably sleeping on the sofa for the next few days (he was impressed she didn't complain about it, since she seemed like a whiner to Sherlock. Probably she'd gotten out her protests about it before they all arrived). The house was, in fact, very small. Smaller than Mycroft's flat. It was a bit surprising she could host so many guests at once.

Sherlock lay in bed for a long time, waiting for John's mum to stop shuffling in the front room. Then, when the house had been silent for a while, he started to get up.

Except, Mycroft was getting up too.

They both appraised one another, noses in the air.

Then Sherlock said stiffly, "Going to see Lestrade?"

Mycroft looked him up and down. "Going to see John?" he retorted.

"Mycroft Holmes, sneaking about in the night. Rather improper of you. I'm expected to be that way, but _you_? You should be ashamed."

"Nobody has to know."

Then, without waiting for Sherlock to say anything else, he left the room. Sherlock peeked his head out and watched him go into Lestrade's room. He was a bit curious, because he wasn't under the impression they knew each other terribly well. But they knew each other well enough for Mycroft to sneak to see him in the dead of night? Interesting…

Sherlock was able to reign in his curiosity for all of three seconds before he tiptoed into the hall and went to the door Mycroft had retreated into. He bent down and saw the door was old and had a keyhole you could just barely see through. It was enough to show Mycroft was in the process of sitting on the bed across from Lestrade, both of them with their legs crossed. Nothing sexual then, good. Sherlock planned to retreat as soon as things got steamy.

"I didn't expect you to actually come," Lestrade said.

"You told me to."

"Yeah, I know, but I didn't think you actually would."

"And why not?"

"Dunno. Thought it might be too childish for you."

Mycroft gave one of his rarer than rare _real_ smiles—honestly, Sherlock'd only seen it once or twice, and now Lestrade was getting one casually? This was more serious than he'd thought. "Don't tell anyone, but I like to be childish on occasion."

Just then, he realised he was not alone in the hallway. He looked up to see John staring down at him, in pyjama bottoms and a dressing gown half covering his bare chest. "What in hell are you doing?"

"Spying on Lestrade and Mycroft," Sherlock breathed, not taking his eye away from the keyhole.

"Wait—are they—" John spluttered, looking appalled.

"Fornicating? Certainly not. I would _not_ like to see that."

"You actually just called it fornicating. Wow. Okay, Sherlock, enough, get up."

"Aren't you at all curious about what my brother looks like when he's flirting? You've been wanting to hear about that date all this time… well here one is, live and in person."

John narrowed his eyes and a smile grew on his face. "You're a bastard, you know that?" And John looked like he was having a real struggle, deciding whether or not to watch them, but then he sighed. "Come on, Sherlock." He held a hand out.

Sherlock sighed too and took it, standing up and allowing himself to be led to John's room. They both removed their dressing gowns and got under the covers, facing one another.

"I feel a little bad that Harry's sleeping on the couch when there's two empty beds as we speak," said John.

"Now that you mention that, what if your mother catches us in the same bed? Won't that be just a little bit suspicious?"

John pursed his lips, then grabbed Sherlock's hand and took it under the sheets. "Eh, sod it. If she finds out, she finds out. I'll have to tell her eventually, won't I?"

"Will you?" asked Sherlock with a smirk.

"Well, if I'm going to be with you as long as I plan to be, then I think she'll notice in a few years that we're closer than ordinary friends."

"And how long do you plan to be with me?" Sherlock asked, now really starting to smile, a mischievous glint in his eye.

John leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips. "As long as possible."

"Are you sure you won't get bored of me?"

"I'm more concerned that you'll get bored of me, honestly."

"You're never boring," Sherlock said. "So you might be stuck with me for quite a while. Are you prepared for that type of commitment?"

John shifted so he was pressed against Sherlock's body, his face in the crook of his neck. "Definitely."

Sherlock smiled into his hair and his arms wound around him of their own volition. Sherlock's body, always responding to John without him meaning it to. His transport had so much control over him now.

And the strange part was that he didn't even care.

Sherlock just let himself get comfortable, with John's forever-warm body pressed close to his, and felt himself become legitimately tired quickly.

He remembered, in his half-consciousness, the threat of Moriarty, and considered the fact that he might be dead soon.

And he decided that if the end of his days were to be spent with John, and with Lestrade and maybe possibly even his brother… he was okay with that. Maybe Sherlock was forgoing everything that made him _him _by thinking so, but with all these people around him that he liked, with the one that he loved… he could die happy.

* * *

**That title is supposed to be totally non-ominous. Just so you know. Like, totally. Non... foreboding... is not a thing... Heh. **


	38. Chapter 37: The Heart of a Holmes

**These chapters are getting so long, suddenly! I can't stop writing, I tell you. Just all day, it's all I can think of. Well, when I'm not rewatching ****_Supernatural,_**** which I've been doing recently. Anywho, enjoy!**

* * *

Everything was fine for the beginning of the day. So smooth, John thought it was too good to be true.

So obviously it was.

In the morning, John woke with Sherlock next to him, and John nuzzled his face in his chest.

"Good morning," Sherlock murmured.

"Happy Christmas," John replied.

"And to you."

"Mum's probably already up, all excited about gifts."

"Is it just me, or is she more excited about this whole Christmas thing than her children?"

"It's always been that way. Even though I love Christmas, she'll always love it more."

"But why?"

John smiled. "It brings people together. She loves that type of thing."

Sherlock sighed. "So, get it over with."

"What over with?" John asked innocently.

"I told you not to get me a gift seventeen times, but obviously you did, so hand it over."

John kept a straight face. "I don't have one."

Sherlock blinked once or twice. "What?"

"You told me not to get you one. So my gift was, for once, listening to you and not doing what you told me not to do. Then, I still got you something, if only very technically, but it's not physical. See, we're both happy."

And Sherlock really did look happy about it. "Good. Then it's my turn?"

"Wait," John muttered. "You got me something? That's totally against the rules. I actually didn't get you something, so that means—"

"Trust me, you'll like it."

"I didn't say I wouldn't, but—"

Sherlock took a long, thin box from under the bed.

"When did you even put that—"

He shoved it in John's face. "Open it."

John grunted and ripped open the paper, and then saw a box, which he then opened too.

And he gaped at the thing in the box for a long, long time.

No way. Sherlock hadn't...

John picked it up, feeling the cool leather under his fingers. They automatically tensed around the object, and he felt heat flash in his body as a picture of himself using it went through his mind.

"You got me a riding crop," John said, as if it needed saying.

"I thought you needed a real instrument for next time."

"My god, I'm going to get great use out of this."

Sherlock visibly shuddered. "That's what I intended. Now, come on, people are waiting."

That was when things were good. But tension rose all over the place.

It started with silly things. John accidentally tripped Harry on his way into the front room and she took it personally. Sherlock snipped something rude at Mycroft, just out of habit, and Mycroft also took that personally—as he should have, because in this case, it _was_ personal. Mycroft, as revenge, casually brought up that John and Sherlock were strangely close for two boys with John's mother in the room, which made both John and Sherlock glare at him until his suit should've melted off his skin. By mid-morning, everyone was making snide remarks that would've been casual and funny were everyone not already irritated with one another. Too many strong personalities in a small space. What John had been worried about from the start.

But considering everything, it could've been a lot, _lot_ worse.

Gifts were opened, and John ended up with mostly rugby related things. They were pretty cool, actually, but he was feeling really nervous about everything and couldn't appreciate it anymore. He just had a really bad feeling.

And last time he had a bad feeling, he got drugged and stuck on a roof with a sniper, so John didn't like this feeling at all.

Claire, Harry's girlfr—cough cough, _friend_—and Mrs Hudson came over later and they all sat down for supper. John was between Sherlock and his sister. Mycroft was on the other side of Sherlock, which John thought was a bad idea, but he didn't say anything. He just listened for them to start talking.

And the moment Mycroft said something to Sherlock, fairly quietly, he strained his ears to hear without totally looking like he was listening to them—he kept his eyes focused on the loud, humourous conversation Mrs Hudson and Greg were having. But he listened for only the Holmes brothers.

"You know, Sherlock," Mycroft said, "you still owe me for that expensive dinner I paid for you. Your first date with John."

John had always wondered how Sherlock paid for that. It'd been Mycroft's money? God, maybe he wouldn't have gone out at all if he'd known Sherlock would have Mycroft hanging things over his head in payment.

"What about it?" Sherlock asked coldly.

"I was only just thinking about it. I haven't thought of a way for you to repay me just yet, but I will eventually."

John saw Sherlock shake his head in his peripherals. "You're really something, you know that? Do you get tired of everything in your life being a manipulation?"

Mycroft gave a quiet, humourless laugh. _"Everything?_ Be more dramatic, will you?"

"Who's being dramatic? You've never done anything that doesn't have a motive behind it."

Mycroft sighed. "You always say that, Sherlock, but you're honestly wrong."

"I don't believe that for a second."

"I didn't say I _never_ have another motive, but not always, Sherlock." Sherlock didn't respond. "Do you remember when I stopped you getting arrested?"

"Of course I remember," Sherlock snapped.

"You were convinced there was something behind it."

"Because there was."

"Want me to tell you what it was?"

"Obviously."

There was a pause. "Absolutely nothing."

"Pleas—" Sherlock began, only to be interrupted.

"I knew you were in trouble, and I had the power to get you out of it. I felt that, as your older brother, it was my duty to assist you. That, in complete honesty, was the reason I did that. Sure, it might have looked bad to have you in jail, but that wouldn't be enough for me to go over and save you. I just didn't want you to go to jail, Sherlock. I'm really not an entirely bad person."

"I thought caring was not an advantage," said Sherlock mockingly, quoting something John had heard before, that he knew had come originally from Mycroft.

"Caring is _not_ an advantage, this much is true," said Mycroft steadily. "But, being human, we can't stop ourselves from caring, not really. I care for a shorter list of things than other people, yes, but I do care. You just must know how to hide it… and what to do with it once you can't hide it any longer." He looked over to Lestrade then, maybe accidentally. "You have to know what's worth caring about."

"I still don't believe you care about anything."

Even John, who wasn't looking directly at them, could see Mycroft's lip twitch in fury. "Good. Then don't. I don't…" he chuckled for a moment. "Ironically, I don't _care_ what you think of me. As long as I can assist you when I need to, that's fine by me."

"Why would I need your _assistance_?" Sherlock asked.

"This business about you being meant to die, for starters. You know I could help you, Sherlock."

"_I don't need your help_," Sherlock spat, every word coming out as its own sentence.

"Oh, don't you?"

"No, I really, _really_ don't."

"So you expect me to sit back and watch you die?"

"I won't die. I've got John."

"Oh yes, because the boy you've fallen in love with can _obviously_ save you, of _course!"_

And Mycroft was hissing, of course. Their row had stayed fairly quiet.

But the problem was, so was everyone else.

John had been so entranced in the conversation, so intrigued, that he hadn't noticed when everyone else started paying attention too.

And _everyone_ had heard.

John looked over the table, past every stunned, awkward face, until he met his mother's.

And John didn't know what he wanted to happen, but what did happen didn't help the situation whatsoever. Made him feel more than ever that things were about to be bad.

His mother went back to eating, like nothing had been said. And everyone else did too, slowly, and the meal concluded in terrible, awkward silence.

And John knew he was in trouble because that was what mum did when she was so mad, she didn't even know what to say.

So supper finished, and the dishes were done, and Claire and Mrs Hudson had to leave real fast. Mycroft and Greg both disappeared quickly, obviously hiding. Harry went to Claire's house for a few hours.

Which left John and Sherlock in the front room with mum doing the dishes.

"How much do you suppose she heard?" asked Sherlock. "Obviously, she heard the 'in love' bit. But about the… you know, dying?"

"I've no idea," John muttered. "But she's cross. I can tell that much."

"So what should I do?"

John was surprised with Sherlock's compliant behaviour. He was ready to say something when, from over his shoulder, came, "I think you should go in the other room for a little while. I need to talk to my son."

John's stomach dropped right out of his body and through the floor. Oh, she was unhappy about something. And it was to do with Sherlock, if she was talking to him that way. Cold in a way her voice rarely ever sounded. It chilled John to the bone.

Sherlock, without another word, got up and left the room.

"Mum, that wasn't necessary. You don't need to be rude."

"John," mum said, sitting down, "why didn't you tell me the truth about your relationship with him?"

John was so nervous, so embarrassed, he really thought he might throw up. "I dunno. I just… I'm still having trouble handling it, let alone… I'm sorry, mum, I really am. I know it's a shock, but—"

"What, you think I'm mad about that fact that he's a boy?" she asked, her voice just a bit closer to the normal soft tone it usually was.

John was able to meet her eyes. "Erm… what else would you be mad about?"

"First of all, that you didn't tell me in the first place. I thought we were closer than that."

"I know, I—"

"But John… that conversation they were having. They were talking about Sherlock dying. Like he's in danger. John, if that boy is getting into trouble and he's dragging you down… is that why you didn't tell me? You two are doing bad things together, things that endanger you both?"

John's head was spinning from how fast his mother's direction was changing. "Mum—what? No, that's not why I didn't tell you."

"Then why is Sherlock supposed to die?"

John had no idea how to answer that one. There was nothing he could tell her, nothing that wouldn't scare the hell out of her.

"See, it _is_ something bad! He's going to get you hurt!"

"Trust me, mum, he'd never hurt me. It's the last thing he wants to do."

"John, I don't want you around people that are going to get you hurt. Now, I know you're away at school and you'll do what you want, but as long as you're under my roof, I won't let someone who's bad for you influence you."

John's insides went stone cold with something between fear and fury. "What exactly are you saying?"

"I'm going to need Sherlock to leave. I don't want you, or my family, endangered, John. I won't have it."

"You can't make him go," John said, his voice low and dangerous.

"I can and I will. It's my house."

"Then I'll leave with him."

"John Watson, you will _not_—"

"Excuse me." Both John and his mother turned to see none other than Mycroft Holmes standing in the door leading to the room. "I'm terribly sorry for intruding, only there's been a huge misunderstanding."

"Mycroft, I know you mean well, but—" started mum, but Mycroft interrupted.

"Please. This miscommunication is entirely my fault, which is why I need to fix it. John is only complying to Sherlock's wishes by keeping silent, but I don't mind telling the truth. Do you want to hear the truth?"

John couldn't believe it. He knew Mycroft could be a prat at times, but this? He was going to tell John's mother about _this_? Oh, John would never forgive him, not in a million—

"When I said he was dying, Mrs Watson, it was because my brother is gravely sick. Sherlock has only a fifty percent chance of survival from this disease. I could help him, with the money I have, but he's stubborn and doesn't like to use it. And Sherlock, being sentimental at very rare times, seems to think that, having found who he believes to be his soul mate, he won't die."

Both John and his mum were looking at Mycroft with their jaws halfway to the floor, but luckily mum wasn't paying enough attention to John to notice his surprise.

She was quiet for a long time. "My god," mum muttered. "I'm… god, I'm horrible."

"Mum, you aren't horrible—"

"It's just from all the stories, I assumed he was into trouble, and actually he's… my god! Do you think he'll live, Mycroft?"

Mycroft gave a very convincing look of sadness. "I think he has a very good chance, if he gets off his high horse and accepts my assistance."

Mum looked back to John. "John… I'm so sorry. Look at me, jumping to conclusions, being judgmental, losing my temper… everything I taught you not to do."

"It's—erm—it's okay, mum, really. I just… I knew Sherlock doesn't want it well known."

"And you'd've been willing to leave to keep his secret?" mum asked.

"I'd do anything for him, mum." This was the truth, which relieved John, since he didn't like lying, especially not to his mother. "He's really great, you know. Rough around the edges, hard to understand, bad with people… but he has a good heart. And won't ever let me get hurt, I promise you that."

"Oh, John… I'm so sorry," mum repeated, looking like she was going to cry. He shoved back his guilt at upsetting her over nothing—she'd been partially right, really. Sherlock had gotten John into trouble. She just didn't need to know that.

"It's really alright," John said.

"And, you know… it's okay. That he's… you know, a he. Love is love."

John smiled, feeling like a huge weight had lifted from his shoulders. "Thank you."

"Is there anything I can get him? To make things more comfortable for him?" she asked, partially to John, and partially to Mycroft.

Mycroft answered. "No, I think he's fine, for now. I just need to get him home in a few days to get to work helping him get better."

"Of course," mum said. "Well, I need to clean up. But goodnight, dear. Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas," John said, giving her a kiss on the cheek and letting her leave.

And then he went up to Mycroft.

"You really just saved my skin there."

"I've been known to do that at times."

John sighed. "So what do I owe you? An anonymous favour in the future?"

"Nothing," said Mycroft. John looked perplexed, and before he could say anything, Mycroft continued, "I started the mess in the first place by speaking about something in public that was better left in private. I cleaned it up, and thus, we are even."

"I…" John muttered. "Thank you."

Mycroft nodded, and then disappeared down the hall, into Lestrade's room.

Sherlock was around the corner, huddling in the dark.

"Have you ever considered that your brother isn't the spawn of Satan?" asked John.

Sherlock was quiet for a long time. "Not until now," he said.

And they both went into John's room, and John was so exhausted from the panic of his conversation, he fell asleep on the bed, fully clothed, before Sherlock even sat down next to him.

* * *

**I just wanted Mycroft to be a hero for once. I've been having Mycroft feels lately, so I wrote this. **


	39. Chapter 38: Confessions

**Here is where I temporarily abandon my pattern of narration (John on odd numbered chapters and Sherlock on even) in order to give a chapter to another character. So my pattern isn't completely destroyed, the next chapter will be John too, meaning three chapters in a row will be not-Sherlock, but I think that's worth it. **

**So here comes my random chapter catering specifically to Mystrade fans, mostly because there won't be much time for more Mystrade coming up here, with all the plot on our doorstep. So for any of you that are 103% done with Mystrade, this is for the most part the end of it, and for those of you that love it, enjoy it now while you still can.**

**I also wrote this because I need to get out the rest of my Mycroft feels, and this'll do it. **

**Enjoy.**

* * *

Greg wasn't planning on eavesdropping on the shipwreck of a conversation John was about to have with his mother. But then both Sherlock and Myc were standing in the dark hallway, where the only light was coming in through the partly open door, listening to their conversation, and it was so dead silent in the house that Greg really couldn't help but hear it.

And it was bad. Greg couldn't imagine it being much worse. John's mother was close to the truth, which was worse than half the films Greg had seen.

Sherlock, with each moment, got a more and more stony look on his face, and the more cool and pensive he looked, the more the hairs on the back of Greg's neck stood on end. At one point, when Mrs Watson said something about making Sherlock leave, Sherlock's eyes flashed to Myc, and Greg honestly thought he might pull a weapon out of that stupid coat of his and kill his brother, right there in the hallway. Greg's whole body tensed and he grabbed at Myc's hand without meaning to. Myc turned for a moment—for Greg had been standing behind him—and met eyes with him. Greg was surprised how much Myc's stony calm—which didn't look like a statue about to come to life and massacre people like Sherlock—actually worked to calm him too. But Myc kept Greg's hand in his nonetheless.

Until, however, Myc stepped out the door and made his presence known.

Sherlock really looked about to kill him now, and lunged forward to pull Myc back, but Greg got in his way, putting an arm up to stop him.

"Move," Sherlock growled.

"No," Greg responded firmly. "Let him speak."

"He'll ruin everything."

"Don't be so damn sure."

Sherlock put his arm down, but he still looked tense enough that he might've been planning to attack Myc from behind, so Greg resolutely stood between them, feeling oddly like he'd somehow signed up for the permanent job of getting between Myc and Sherlock, since he was the only person on the planet that genuinely liked both of them—not even John liked Myc.

He listened for Myc now. He was saying, "… entirely my fault, which is why I need to fix it. John is only complying to Sherlock's wishes by keeping silent, but I don't mind telling the truth. Do you want to hear the truth?"

He wasn't going to honestly tell the truth, was he? No, Greg decided, he wouldn't. That'd not only be cruel to his brother—though that part probably only half bothered him—but it'd also be really stupid. John's mum would only make the situation worse if she knew. Even if Myc wasn't nice enough to keep it from her for Sherlock, he was clever enough to keep it from her because that was the only thing to do if he wanted this fixed.

Sherlock didn't seem to agree. During the moment of silence Myc gave, Sherlock lunged again to get to Myc, and this time Greg shoved back at him, and Sherlock only just missed hitting the wall. He came forward again, but Myc was already speaking.

"When I said he was dying, Mrs Watson, it was because my brother is gravely sick."

Sherlock froze then, and so did Greg. How the hell was Myc so good at making things up on the spot like that? If Greg were put in that position, he'd never have sounded so damn sure of himself.

Myc was now saying, "… fifty percent chance of survival from this disease. I could help him, with the money I have, but he's stubborn and doesn't like to use it. And Sherlock, being sentimental at very rare times, seems to think that, having found who he believes to be his soul mate, he won't die."

Sherlock honestly looked shocked, his mouth hanging open in a very un-Sherlock sort of way, which made Greg feel so smug he actually smiled.

And Myc continued to lie through his teeth, and he did so in a way that was so smooth, so flawless that he nearly had Mrs Watson crying from how "horrible" she was by the time he was done, asking if Sherlock needed anything to be comfortable. It was unbelievable.

Greg heard John getting up and retreated to his temporary room, keeping the door cracked. Myc came back into the still dark hallway, and John followed him in, looking up at him. He hadn't noticed Sherlock standing just behind him yet.

"You really just saved my skin there," said John, still looking and sounding shaky from the near-disastrous conversation.

"I've been known to do that at times."

"So what do I owe you?" John asked warily. "An anonymous favour in the future?"

"Nothing. I started the mess in the first place by speaking about something in public that was better left in private. I cleaned it up, and thus, we are even."

John looked speechless for a moment. Then he said, with more emotion than he usually gave to anything, "Thank you."

Myc nodded tersely and started towards Greg's door, and he jumped onto the bed, folding his arms behind his head like he'd been relaxing there for hours.

Myc came in and shut the door, automatically loosening his tie and placing his jacket on the dresser. It made Greg happy to watch, since Myc rarely loosened up… well, anything. Ever. It used to make him uncomfortable, when he first started visiting Greg at school, but now he did so without thinking about it. He knew he and Myc had been getting closer from all the visits—they both decided to keep quiet about them, however, because they knew neither of them would hear the end of it from John or Sherlock if it were open news that he visited several times a week since their date—and he knew they both had mostly unvoiced feelings for each other, but it was the first time he saw Myc truly relax around him and it was nice to see.

"Don't pretend you weren't listening to every word we said," Myc said in a bored sort of voice.

Greg considered lying, but since Myc would know he was doing it, he decided against it and said, "Well you were listening too."

"Because I knew I would eventually have to interject and save the day. You, on the other hand, are just nosey," he said with a smirk. It was odd to hear Myc tease. He hardly ever kidded about anything.

"I do want to be a detective someday, after all. I'll have to learn to put my nose where it has no business being, won't I?"

Myc sat on the bed opposite Greg, his back board straight in a way that looked strange on a surface that supposed to be comfortable. Then he looked over to Greg, locking him in his penetrating, omniscient gaze that always made Greg feel both exhilarated and nervous. "So what did you conclude from all this information you've gathered, then? Tell me your professional opinion."

"You take responsibility for your actions, for one. You're a damn good liar, to the point it should make me a bit nervous. And that, even though you insist sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, you care about your brother far more than you want to let on."

Myc was quiet for a long moment, and Greg nearly started sweating under that probing look he was getting. Then Myc said, "Why would my being a decent liar make you nervous?"

Greg looked down at his lap. "There's one or two things you've said to me that I could just be too gullible to see as lies."

"What, that I think you're a person worth caring about?"

Greg looked up. "Yeah, like that."

"And why would I be dishonest with you about that?" asked Myc, his head tilting slightly.

Greg swallowed. Why in hell did Myc make him so damn anxious all the time? He was just so intense, that's what it was. Too intense. "Because you don't care about most things, so why would I be—"

"That's not the answer to the question I asked. I asked you why I would lie, not why it would be hard to believe it was the truth."

Greg blinked a few times. "Well… I don't know. To… get something from me?"

Myc gave the small smile he did when he talked about things that made him unhappy. "Even you think I'm trying to manipulate you?"

Greg quickly backtracked. "No, no, that's not what I m—"

"But that's exactly what you mean," he said, looking straight ahead. Greg exhaled from the relief of having the eyes off of him, but still felt a heavy sadness in his gut at the look on Myc's face. "All my life, I've wanted people to fear me, to know that I could do anything to them and that I was willing to do everything I was capable of… Who knew that would someday come back to haunt me? That even with the people I want to be honest with, to be kind to, they all think I'm trying to get something out of it."

"I don't really think that," Greg said.

Myc's eyes found Greg's again. "Don't you? Didn't you think I was going to reveal John and Sherlock's secret to John's mother?"

"No, I didn't," Greg said honestly. "I knew you wouldn't. That's why I stopped Sherlock from tackling you before you could say what you wanted to."

Myc nodded, then looked ahead again. Having himself free of The Gaze made himself feel able to speak freely. "But can I ask you something, Myc?"

"When have I ever denied you that, Gregory?" Like he knew Greg had trouble speaking when his eyes were trained on him, he kept his eyes looking at the wall ahead of him.

"With whatever… whatever's happening with us—since honestly, I haven't the faintest what _we_ are right now—do you regret it? Do you wish you'd never met me at all, so you didn't have to… feel anything?"

Myc turned slowly to Greg then, his face as unreadable as always. But his eyes were more searching than ever. "Why are you so insecure, Gregory?" He didn't ask it in an offensive way, only curiously, with maybe a bit of sadness in his voice.

"Don't you know? You know everything."

"I know those things by observing. I have had very little time to observe you, and thus, I actually know very little about you."

"Does that annoy you?" asked Greg, smiling a little.

"Immensely," Myc replied.

"Well, I had this girlfriend," Greg said. He paused, and then said, "You really don't know this?"

"No, I do not."

Greg smirked. "That's oddly satisfying." Myc's mouth turned downward and Greg hastily continued, "I was with her for a long time and then it turned out she never really loved me. Or liked me at all, not from the looks of it. You don't cheat one someone from the get-go if you really fancy them. I don't know what she was really with me for. Because I was stupid enough to believe her lies?"

"So now, the thought that I could lie to you makes you uncomfortable, because you've been lied to so much in the past."

"Yeah… yeah, I guess," Greg muttered. "But you never answered my actual question, Myc."

"You actually need the answer? You don't know it already?"

"Erm… no… should I?" Greg felt self-conscious now. "What, I'm not a bloody genius like you. Give me a break."

"No… you not knowing is an error on my part, I'm afraid."

"Knowing what?"

Greg saw Myc's chest rise enough that he knew he was taking a deep, steadying breath, even though he was trying to hide it. "I don't wish, in any way, that I had never met you."

"But that still doesn't answer if you regret liking me," Greg interrupted.

Myc sighed. "Gregory… Do you want to know something about me I've never told anyone? Something not even my brother has figured out over the years?"

Greg shifted towards Myc subconsciously, then nodded, too intrigued to speak.

Myc looked away from Greg again, but it was obvious this time it was for his own comfort. Speaking about whatever he was going to say was hard for him. Greg decided that, no matter how long it took to say, he wouldn't interrupt. Anything he tried to say might stop Myc from saying any more.

"I've never in my life had someone to care about me," Myc began. "That much many people know. And, in return, I never cared about them either. Why should I? It seemed a waste of my time. I instilled that sentiment in my brother from an early age… but my reasons for doing that were… maybe a little falsified. I told him that to have a great mind, he had to ignore others. Caring's not an advantage, sentiment is a chemical defect, so on and so forth. But the real reason…" he stopped speaking, and Greg thought for a moment he might just get up and leave. But then he plowed forward, "The real reason I thought love was a waste of time was because nobody had bothered to spare it for me. Sherlock doesn't know this, because he was too young and self-absorbed to notice it, but mother always liked him best. He was quite sweet, in youth. I was always cold, and she always thought something was wrong with me. Like how Mrs Hudson had little to say about me. Because nobody's ever bothered to care about me. Sherlock thinks nobody likes _him_? Compared to me, he's as popular as a celebrity. Not that I say this so you'll pity me, because it doesn't bother me, usually. I've taught myself not to care too, remember. But… that first day you saw me, your eyes locked onto me immediately. And they never left me that whole time. Not out of fear, but out of interest. I'd never met someone that was interested in _me_, as a person, not in my money or power. Just… me."

Greg honestly couldn't believe it. Because this was solid proof that Myc was human. As human as any other human. Cleverer than most, more closed off, but he could feel the same way as anyone else.

"So I told Sherlock not to care out of selfishness. Because all caring ever did for me, the rare times I've attempted to, is hurt me. Because I was too harsh, too cold. I didn't mean to be. It's just who I am. But who I am scares people." He finally, after so long, met Greg's eyes again. "Except for you. I don't scare you. Make you nervous, yes, but not scare you. You've even got a nickname for me. I've never had a nickname before. And you… seem to actually like me. For who I am. God knows why, but… because of that, I could never regret my feelings for you. You showed me someone on the earth is capable of loving me."

Greg's throat actually felt a little tight after Myc's long speech. He cleared his throat.

"I…" Greg muttered, not knowing what to say. But he felt that he had to say _something_, or Myc might feel awkward or something. "It's funny… I think the reason you interested me so much on that first day was that you had this… feel about you. Mysterious. Powerful. And the detective in me had to know _why_. Then, after that… well, the detective never really did shut up, did it? Because even after all those times of talking, you still made no sense to me. Even less sense than Sherlock, and that's bloody saying something."

"And now that I make sense? Will I bore you now?"

Greg knew he was joking, but he answered anyway. "No, you won't, because you make even less sense than before, actually. Because at least before, everything about you fit together. But now you've thrown in this bit that counteracts everything else I've ever learned about you. Now I've got to start from scratch."

"So you'll have to observe me enough that you understand me?"

"I suspect I'll never understand you… but yes. I'll keep trying anyway."

Myc smiled, one of the real ones that Greg sometimes got to see that made Greg smile too without meaning to. "Will this experiment take a long time?"

"Could take a while, yeah. Why, is that a problem?"

"No, I think that with the amount I watch you, you should get to watch me back."

Greg's smile dropped just a little. "You don't actually watch me, do you?"

Myc pursed his lips. "Should I lie to make you feel better, or should I always be honest with you?"

Greg sighed. "I'm going to regret saying this, but yes, honesty is always the policy with me."

"Then yes, I watch you."

"How?"

Myc smirked. "I never reveal my secrets."

"We'll see about that," Greg muttered.

Then he and Myc met eyes once more, but the energy was different from usual, and Greg found himself inching forward, a centimetre at a time, and Myc was doing the same.

And then, after both a moment and an eternity, very soft pressure was applied to his lips, as if testing the water, and then the pressure increased enough that it was a real kiss. It lasted only a moment before both men backed away, looking anxious. Then, at the same time, they both smiled at each other, just a little, and as if on cue, both stripped out of their shoes and dress shirts, not bothering with ridding themselves of their nice trousers, and got under the covers. The night before, neither of them actually slept, they only stayed up and talked, feeling uncomfortable sleeping in the same bed. But somehow, now, some wall had fallen down, and neither of them looked so uncomfortable anymore.

"Goodnight, Gregory."

"G'night Myc."

* * *

**Wow, long chapter. This is almost as long as the very first chapter, with Sherlock's entire childhood smashed into one chapter. **

**But I think that my Mycroft feels have been handled now, so I can get back to Johnlock goodness next. **

**There might still be a chapter or two or three of Christmas. Definitely one. We'll see how many more.**

**At this pace, I might actually make it past fifty chapters. Oh god, what is wrong with me? More importantly, what's wrong with all you for reading something so long? You're all barking, apparently. **

**Anywho, please let me know how you feel about Christmas so far. Thanks a lot. :]**


	40. Chapter 39: To Love, or Not To Love

**It's a little ridiculous how much I've been working on this story the past few days. Anytime I'm not writing a new chapter, I'm reading over old chapters and editing them. That's good for you all, though, because I'm getting chapters out really fast. Anywho, here y'all are. Enjoy.**

* * *

John awoke blearily and checked the watch that was still fastened to his wrist. Half past three. _Great_. He wasn't sure how early he'd conked out—in all of his clothes and shoes—but now he felt pretty awake.

He finally focused on the figure next to him. Sherlock's eyes were open. He lay on his side, staring in John's general direction, but not actually meeting his eyes. His gaze looked glazed over, like he was awake, but not really present.

Then John realised that, for having fallen asleep fully clothed, he was pretty damn comfortable. He looked down at himself and saw that he was in a t-shirt and pyjama pants.

"Did you put my pyjamas on me?" John asked in surprise, looking up to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked so distant that John didn't think he'd answer, but he shrugged in response.

"Thank you," said John.

Sherlock shrugged again.

John looked at Sherlock closer, considering the fact that Sherlock wasn't usually silent like this unless he was so out of this world in thought he couldn't even hear John. But he could hear him, obviously, since he'd shrugged.

"Sherlock, have you been awake all night?"

A third shrug, and this time John began to feel worried. He scooted closer, but Sherlock's stare didn't shift.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

Sherlock didn't respond for a moment—not even with a shrug. John thought, at first, that he wasn't planning to say anything at all, but then he began to speak, still fixated on a spot just above John's head. "Why did I ever stoop to caring?"

John's brows pulled together and he frowned deeply. "What?" he asked, his voice only just a breath out of something like fear. He had heard Sherlock, of course, but he didn't want to believe the words. He'd always been afraid Sherlock would decide that caring for John was a mistake… but now he'd voiced it.

"Look at the mess I've made," Sherlock continued. "You were kidnapped by a psychopath, and every day that you're with me, I put you in danger. By caring, I've condemned you to a life where you're never safe. By loving, I've made it so the only ones I do love reap the consequences. How could I have been so stupid?"

John was upset by Sherlock's words, yes, but he was also relieved. This wasn't going in the direction he thought it was going to, where Sherlock said the work was more important than John.

"Sherlock, now wait a moment," John said. "You're always concerned about my saf—"

"I can't watch you every moment. Someday, something will happen to you. What if you die because I was stupid enough to fall in love with you?"

"Sherlock," John said more firmly, but Sherlock still wouldn't look at him. "I've chosen this life with you. I want to risk all that to be with you, you know that."

"But your mother was right, John. You aren't safe with me."

"And I don't bloody well care."

"It's ironic, actually," said Sherlock. "Caring is what put you in danger, and caring is what makes me troubled that you're in danger at all. If you'd just stayed my partner, you being in danger would be of little concern to me."

"Now you're just babbling," said John.

"Mycroft's right," Sherlock continued. "When I lose, lose _everything_, it'll be because I decided it was a bright idea to care."

John grabbed Sherlock's face, and Sherlock's eyes met his accidentally. John was happy to see that once his eyes met John's, they couldn't seem to move. Maybe that was why he'd been avoiding his gaze in the first place. "Sherlock, you know how love is symbolised by a heart?"

Sherlock blinked—for the first time since John woke up—in surprise, stopped on his rant by John's words. John took this chance to continue. "Think about what the heart _is_, Sherlock. It's the center of the body, pumping blood everywhere. Blood, which is what keeps us alive. It's the strongest muscle in the body, working constantly. There's a reason love's a heart, Sherlock. Because it's strong, it brings life. It's the thing we can't live without."

"Love? We can't live without love?" Sherlock scoffed. "Right."

"It's true," John said. "You really are dumb if you don't know that, because it's not just my sentiment saying that, it's logic. A baby who gets neglected either turns out into a fucked up adult, or just dies in the first place. A human that doesn't hear another person speak before they're ten will never be able to learn language. A human that's never been loved, that's never experienced any sort of compassion or empathy… are they really even human at all?"

Sherlock was quiet. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I love you, and you love me, and that's the greatest thing in the world."

"You could die because of me."

"I could die because some git decides to drink and drive. I could die because the lift breaks down. I could die because my internal organs stop functioning. There're a lot of ways to die, Sherlock, and let me tell you, if I'm to die early, I want it to be for you, not in a car accident or a broken lift. Dying for the one I love is worth it, Sherlock."

"So you're saying it's right of me to put you in danger?"

John thought about that without pausing for too long. He didn't want Sherlock to think he'd won. "I'm saying there's no way 'round it, and if you leave me because you're afraid I'll get hurt, you'll be doing exactly what you mean to avoid."

"Better heartbroken than dead."

"Not in my opinion."

"But why?" Sherlock asked desperately. "Why would the prospect of dying by my side seem acceptable to you?"

"Because I love you, idiot. You know that."

"Love is stupid," Sherlock decided.

"And blind, and painful, yeah," John agreed. "And that's what makes it so great."

Sherlock looked confused again. "What?"

"Because even though love sucks, everyone wants it. Even Holmeses. Because love is so amazing, so _good_, that all the shitty stuff that comes with it is worth it." Sherlock didn't speak, which John decided meant he had won. "Have you been up all this time thinking about this?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"You don't really think you could leave me, do you?" John asked with a smile.

Sherlock sighed. "No, actually, I don't. That's the part that frightens me."

"Love's scary too," John said. "But hey, it comes with sex. And sex is worth it."

Sherlock pursed his lips for a moment. "Actually, you might have a point there."

John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock lightly. "So don't let me catch you wanting to leave me to protect me again, got it?"

"Fine, fine."

"Now go to sleep, will you?" John asked, getting up.

"Where're you going?"

"For a walk," said John. Sherlock looked worried, so John added, "In the house. I'm feeling restless."

"Want me to come?"

"I want you to sleep," John said.

Sherlock debated for a moment, and then nodded.

"I'll be back soon," John said, walking out the door.

He went into the front room, sitting on the ground at the foot of the Christmas tree. The only glow in the room came from the rainbow lights adorning the tree.

"Did you forget I was out here?" asked Harry from the couch.

"No. I just wanted to sit."

John heard Harry sit up, but she was barely in the light. "Remember when we used to sleep right by the tree the day after Christmas every year? Because we knew the tree was going away the next day, so we would sleep under it as a goodbye?"

John smiled. "That's kind of why I came out here, actually."

"It's the reason I didn't complain much when mum told me I was getting the couch when all your friends came." John nodded, even though she couldn't see it. "So, I never would've guessed."

He knew what she was referring to. "Neither would I."

"Until you met the guy that made you gay?"

"I don't think I'd call myself gay," John said honestly. "I don't look at other men that way. Never have before. But… this'll sound stupid."

"Try me."

John sighed. "My bond with Sherlock goes past superficial things like that. Gender has nothing to do with it. It's like…"

"Like you found your soul mate?"

John looked in her direction, meeting the two reflections that were her eyes in the dim light. "Is that stupid?"

Harry didn't speak for a moment. "No, I don't think so. I think they exist, for some people."

"What, Claire's not your soul mate?" John asked.

"No," Harry said flatly. "I like her a lot, but it's not going to last."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it's me we're talking about."

"Well, if you knew Sherlock well, you'd have no idea how anyone could even go on a date with him… let alone fall in love with him."

"Love is a strange thing."

"Yeah, tell me about it." They both didn't speak for a minute. It was funny to John how he and Harry could argue all the time, but when they were just chatting in the dark, it felt like they were actually close. Like they had something in common. Actually, now that John had Sherlock, maybe they _did_ have something in common, for the first time in their lives. "You going to come out to mum now too?"

Harry chuckled. "No fuckin' way, man. In a few days, I'll be leaving to go back to my own flat. She doesn't need to know how often Claire comes over."

"Wait, your flat?" John asked.

"Yeah, I moved out a few months ago."

"Oh… I didn't even know."

"You haven't phoned much," Harry said. "I don't care or anything, but you still missed a lot."

"Well…" John murmured, "Good for you. Is it nice?"

"Eh, no. But it's in London."

John smiled. "I'm going to move to London when I finish school."

"Is that a fact?" asked Harry, a smile in her voice.

"Yes," John insisted.

"Is Sherlock coming?"

"There's no point being anywhere without Sherlock."

She huffed, though he couldn't see her face to determine if it was a surprised, amused, or irritated one. "Well, you really _have_ fallen for him, haven't you?"

"More than I probably should have."

John stood up, because talking about Sherlock made him miss him, as if he didn't just see him ten minutes before.

"One more thing though," Harry said.

John stopped walking. "Yeah?"

"That stuff you told me yesterday… the trouble you talked about, and I didn't believe you. You were telling the truth, weren't you?"

John kept walking.

"Weren't you?" Harry asked more loudly.

"Good night, Harry," John said pointedly.

And John could've sworn he heard her say, "Damn, that's awesome."

Only Harry Watson would refer to being kidnapped as 'awesome', John decided.

Or maybe it was just a Watson thing in general, because John didn't mind it so much either. If that was all he had to take in exchange for being with Sherlock? Fine with him. It was worth it.

* * *

**Alright, one more chapter of Christmas. Maybe one and a half. And this next chapter may, or may not, be sexy. But you didn't hear it from me.**


	41. Chapter 40: Water and Whips

**Reallllly long chapter again. Most of them will be now, I think. Sorry. Or you're welcome. Or both.**

* * *

Sherlock woke up to see John staring at him, a little dreamy smile on his face.

"Good morning," Sherlock murmured.

"You fell asleep before I came back into the room last night."

Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose I was tired." John was still smiling, but now that Sherlock was awake, it'd grown into a full-blown grin. "What is it?" Sherlock asked. "Why do you look so indecently happy?"

"I know, it's your job to be indecent, isn't it?" Sherlock just rolled his eyes and waited for a response. "Well, today mum's got work," John finally said.

"Okay…"

"She'll have told Harry to stay and keep an eye on us. You know, make sure we're being appropriate. But I feel that if I get really lucky, I could get her to leave the house for a bit. And then… well, if we warn Mycroft and Greg to plug their ears, maybe I can test out that gift you gave me."

Sherlock took a deep breath, his whole body becoming more alert from the suggestion. "How do we get Harry out then?"

Just then, the door opened.

"What is it with you and not knocking?" John grumbled.

"So I'm guessing you want me out of the house."

John sat up quickly. "Erm…"

"Mum told me she wants me to stay here all day, but I really couldn't care less if you two fuck all day, so I was planning on getting out of here. I'll be back around supper time. I'll make sure to come back before mum does so she thinks I was here all day."

"Erm… thanks," said John.

"It's mostly selfish anyway. I've got some fucking to do myself. Use protection!" she added as she shut the door.

"That was easier than you intended, I presume?"

"Much easier," John muttered. "Now for the happy couple."

John got up and Sherlock followed him out the door. John looked about to knock, so Sherlock took the liberty of shoving the door open.

"Sherlock!" John hissed. But then he caught sight of the bed too, and he cocked his head to the side.

The two of them were _snuggling_. God, Sherlock never in his life wanted to see Mycroft cuddling, but now he had. Well, honestly, he'd opened the door without knocking precisely to see what they were doing, but he didn't expect to see anything interesting.

John decided that, since they were both peacefully slumbering, he'd leave a note and put it over the clock so they'd notice it.

Sherlock watched over his shoulder as he wrote it.

If you hear strange sounds coming from somewhere in the house, get some coffee, on me. – John

John left a ten pound note on top of the short letter and they both left the room, shutting the door silently behind them.

"Now Sherlock, bring me that box," John said.

"Wait, bring it here? Why would I—"

"_Sherlock_," John said warningly, and Sherlock clearly saw the look in John's eye that showed he had fallen into Dom mode. "Bring. Me. The. Box. _Now_."

Sherlock nodded obediently and went into John's room to take the box from its spot beneath the bed. But it wasn't there. Sherlock rolled his eyes, because John had probably hidden it from Sherlock just so he'd have to come find it at this moment. But then, as he was looking around the room, deciding where John would have put it, he heard the shower turn on.

His whole body felt electrified then. He was _really_ excited now. Sherlock looked around more quickly. Where would he put it? The obvious places, like his sock drawer or in his bedside table, were out. John was trying to make a challenge for Sherlock, meaning that he'd try something tricky. So what places would John normally not hide something? In plain sight was Sherlock's first guess, but then he'd've seen it already. Under a pillow, maybe. John'd never hide something there.

But then Sherlock thought of it. Somewhere high. John probably thought Sherlock would assume that the wardrobe in the room was far too high for John to get to. Meaning that was probably exactly where he put it. Sherlock got onto his toes and blindly fished around the top of John's wardrobe, and, yes, there it was, pushed all the way against the wall. How had John even gotten it up there? Even with Sherlock reaching up as high as he could, he only just got his forearm over the top. Had John gotten a chair or something?

Sherlock had taken only five seconds to work out where it was, and another six to reach up high enough to get it in his grasp, but he felt he'd taken too long already.

He held the box gingerly, like he might damage it, as he walked out into the hallway and opened the door, steam already billowing into his face. He walked in and, even through the white cloudiness of the air, could see John's clothes in a heap on the floor. Sherlock was already getting hard just thinking about it, as he looked at the curtain in front of him, knowing John was behind it.

"That was fast," John said, seeming to have heard him come in. "Take it out of the box and set it on the toilet. Then get in here." John's voice still had that ring of authority in it that made Sherlock excited. It was the one time obeying every word someone said was not only first instinct, but enjoyable. Sherlock imagined nobody could deny John when he used that voice.

Sherlock started to pull down his trousers, but then John, as if he could see him through the opaque curtain, said, "No. With your clothes still on."

Sherlock blinked once or twice, the look on his face going petulant. "Why would I keep—" Sherlock bit his tongue on the question, but too late. John's face appeared around the curtain, looking angry. Before he had to say anything, Sherlock moved towards the shower and stepped inside, the hot water immediately soaking his grey cotton shirt and pyjama pants.

John looked him up and down once, twice. And Sherlock did so too, because the more he got used to his feelings and sentiments, and understood they weren't going away, the more he gave into them. And now he could fully appreciate how attractive John truly was. He was short, yes, but he was dense, with a thick frame that was all hard muscles. He was always beautiful to Sherlock, but there were so many looks to John, and all of them were stunning in different ways. When he was concentrating on his work, when he looked at Sherlock lovingly, when he was grinning. Even when he was angry, there was something about it that made Sherlock just want to stop and stare.

But then there was when he was like this. When he had this perpetual arrogant smirk on his lips, one that was almost never present otherwise. One eyebrow was just barely up, like every thought that went through his head was a way to surprise Sherlock. And he exuded this extreme confidence when he got like this, so much that Sherlock felt oddly respectful of him. Like John _deserved_ his obedience.

John came forward. "To answer your question," John said, "I wanted to unclothe you myself."

"And you wanted to surprise me?" Sherlock again realised he shouldn't've spoken.

But John gave a smile, one that, with the look that was on John's face already, looked devious. "Yes, that's part of it too," John admitted, coming forward and stripping his shirt off quickly and throwing it around the curtain so it plopped wetly on the floor just outside the shower. John gripped Sherlock's hips hard, pressing them flush against each other, and John took Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth, nipping down on it. Sherlock let out a moan, and John squeezed his hands hard enough into his sides that it was obviously supposed to be reproachful. "Pretend my mum's here. Pretend she's right outside the door." Sherlock nodded. "But you can growl," added John. "Whenever you feel like doing something else, growl for me."

Sherlock did so right then, and John grinned wide, clenching his fingers around Sherlock's bottoms and yanking them and the pants underneath off in one, unceremonious pull. Sherlock helpfully stepped out of them and John let those pile on top of the shirt on the floor outside. Then John stepped back, so his shoulders were beneath the water, and looked Sherlock up and down again.

"It's odd, I never get tired of looking at you," said John. They met eyes and John's face, quite suddenly, went soft once more, his smile feeling inviting rather than unnerving. "I'm glad you're here with me." When Sherlock didn't respond, only stood and looked at him, John added, "You can speak."

"I'll have to thank my brother for lying shamelessly to your mother."

John came forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him back so they were both under the water. For a minute or two, they only kissed each other sweetly, on the lips and cheek and neck and shoulder, until one of John's kisses turned to a bite and things quickly escalating into hard kissing, with Sherlock pressed up against the cold wall. There was an unspoken implication that Sherlock's speaking privileges had ended.

Then John turned Sherlock around, so he was facing away from the showerhead, and bent him down. "Hands against the wall." Sherlock did so immediately. "Yeah, right there," John said approvingly. "Now don't move them," John said, leaning forward so his lips were to Sherlock's ear, "Or you'll regret it."

Sherlock shivered and nodded.

"And I want you to tell me, right now, what you want."

"I… I want…" Sherlock murmured, feeling uncomfortable. Speaking about his desires was never part of the deal before.

"That's exactly why I asked," said John. "You never want to admit it. How weak you feel, how much you want this. So I want you to tell me."

"Why?" Sherlock snapped. This time, he didn't forget he shouldn't have said it, but more decided he didn't care if he got punished for it. John was leaving Sherlock's comfort zone and he knew it.

John sighed. "Because," he said, his voice kinder, "I don't want you to be ashamed, first off. I want you to know what you want and not mind that you want it. Second, I want to make sure you're happy with what I'm doing too. Believe it or not, I don't want you to be my sex doll. I want you to enjoy it too. And, lastly, because saying it out loud will make you feel better about feeling at all. Trust me." He gave Sherlock a quick peck on the cheek, and then said, "So tell me what you want."

"I want _you_," Sherlock tried. Non-specific.

"Want me how?"

Yeah, he knew it wouldn't work, but it wouldn't hurt to attempt it. "Inside of me. Your… prick inside of me."

John chuckled. "You'll have to wait a moment for that though," he said, and he pulled out a bottle, which Sherlock could only figure was lube. Had John bothered to bring some?

Then, a moment later, something was inside of him. A finger. He was able to stop himself from making a noise.

"Good, you remembered," said John, pulling his fingers in and out slowly. Then he went searching, and Sherlock knew what he was looking for. He found it quickly this time, having searched for it before, and rubbed on it. Sherlock's mouth opened, but he let it flap noiselessly as his eyes squeezed shut. He kept working at it, and his breathing was increasing rapidly, but he made it as quiet as he could. His fingers clenched against the wall. After a while, Sherlock wasn't quite sure what John was doing back there, because the whole area was just white hot pleasure.

Then came the sudden snap against his arse (when had he had time to grab the riding crop?), one that made him gasp in surprise. Right after the gasp came another, harder one, on his back, and he kept himself from grunting in pain. Sherlock knew it was punishment for the sound he'd made.

Another snap came to his arse, lighter like the first one, and this time he didn't make noise, so he was able to gauge the feel of it. It was like the pleasure in the area spiked with the pain, but it was definitely more good than bad. Much more.

A third came down, and this time he growled, just because he had to make some noise.

John's fingers left him then, and Sherlock might've whined for the loss, damn the consequences, had they not been fairly quickly replaced with something better. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, but managed not to make any actual sound. John didn't move.

"You're very good at this, Sherlock," John said. "It's almost too bad. The red against your skin is quite lovely."

"And you want to be a doctor someday," Sherlock teased. If John wanted to hit him so bad, who cared if he spoke out of turn?

And a harder hit did come down on his back, but then John said, "Probably true. But I'd never hurt anyone else. It's just you, really. And only because you like it. Don't you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Out loud."

"Yes," Sherlock whispered. "But move, please," he added in a whimper.

He expected another hard slap from the crop, but it didn't come. There was a laugh. "Oh, now you'll tell me what you want."

Sherlock nodded feverishly.

"Please," Sherlock said. _Yes, John likes please_, he thought wildly. Anything to get him moving.

"What was that?" John asked teasingly, with another of the tantalising strikes on his arse, which just made his need greater. He growled again.

"Please!" Sherlock repeated.

John didn't need to be told again. He did move, not wasting any more time with gentleness, starting off with a merciless pace. Sherlock was having trouble not making noise now.

And then came another of the crop hits, and Sherlock couldn't help but moan.

And John did too, as if in response to Sherlock's. "You know what?" John decided aloud, still keeping his steady pace as he spoke, "I take back my rule about quiet. You can moan for me, Sherlock."

And you know what? He damn well did. Like what usually happened, Sherlock was past the point of caring. Caring if everyone understood how much he needed John, caring if they knew he was human like anyone else. Everything was sensation.

John sped up, like he couldn't help it, and eventually he found the prostate, which had Sherlock nearly yelling.

And John reached around and grabbed Sherlock's cock in his own, getting a very surprised gasp. He pumped it along with his thrusts.

"Sherlock, I want you to come for me."

And, with almost no pause at all, he did, like the words alone coerced it out of him. The frankly appallingly dirty noises that left his mouth then were apparently enough to set John over the edge too.

"God, Sherlock," he groaned.

He sat there motionless for a few moments, and then pulled out slowly, Sherlock gasping because of the sensitivity of the area.

Now came the part that Sherlock only understood when he read up on it (something the internet called aftercare) and John pulled him up, putting his arms around him and again pulling him beneath the water. As Sherlock shakily stood, feeling both amazing and unsteady at the same time, John rubbed his arms up and down, kissed him anywhere he could reach. Sherlock began to feel like himself again after a few minutes.

"I still don't know how you do that," said Sherlock. "Completely turn off my mind."

"It's a gift. Is it nice to give it a break?"

"Actually… yes, it is."

"Good," John replied. "Because I really do want you to like it too. Honestly, it's no fun for me if you don't like it."

"I know. And I do."

John nodded into his shoulder, and they were silent as the water continued to pour down on them until it'd become cold.

Only then did John turn it off, step out of the shower, and hand Sherlock a towel. They both walked out of the room with towels around their waists.

Lestrade was in the hallway. "Don't suppose you left any hot water at all?" he asked.

John and Sherlock both chuckled.

"Yeah, right," John said. "Were you here all this time?"

"Unfortunately," Lestrade said. "We tried to ignore you. I mean, really, it's not like I don't hear it at school."

John didn't even look ashamed anymore. "True. And I might go fuck him again," John added, also without shame. Sherlock looked at John in surprise, who only laughed.

Sherlock turned to go into John's room.

"Damn!" Lestrade said when he could see Sherlock's back. "John, did you do that?"

John walked around Sherlock and looked at it. "Wow, that looks nice. I like it."

"I can't believe he lets you do that. I mean, this is _Sherlock_."

"The most controlling man ever to live? I know. I put him in his place."

"Apparently. I mean, maybe he needs it," he added, and Sherlock wondered if there wasn't a Dominant streak in dear old Lestrade too. How would 'Myc' take to _that_? "So," he added, "Myc says you're leaving later today," he added to Sherlock, who nodded. "I'm leaving in about an hour. In case I don't see you before I leave," Lestrade added to them both. "Bye, I guess. See you at school."

He went into the bathroom to take a cold shower, and Sherlock followed John into their bedroom.

"I don't want to leave," Sherlock said.

"Don't want you to either," John said. "But we'll text and things. And it's only another two weeks."

Sherlock groaned. "That's so _long_."

John smiled. "It'll be over in no time."

Sherlock sighed and nodded, even though he didn't agree. He lay on the bed, abandoning his towel to the floor but not bothering with clothes yet.

"You look tired," John said. "Go back to sleep." A leftover of what had just happened left some of the command in his voice, which made Sherlock feel he had to listen. He nodded and got under the covers, and John pounced onto the bed, landing next to him. He put an arm around Sherlock and, apparently he'd gotten very little sleep lately, because his eyes quickly grew heavy and he was out.

* * *

**Okay, so I finally figured out what the rest of the story is going to be. I've just been waiting for inspiration to hit me in the face, and now it did, so I planned out a very basic idea of what each chapter will hold. And I think that there will be, in the end, forty-seven chapters. Unless I decide to add something else later, which I might, but probably I'll stick to the plan as best I can. So we're getting really close to the end, folks! Crazy, right? I was starting to think this was going to be the never-ending story. Some of these chapters might end up being real long coming up here, like they have been of late, just to fit everything I have in mind. So yeah. That is all. **


	42. Chapter 41: Unwelcome Visitor

**Wellllll this is awkward…. Cuz, see, I've been getting many reviews, since the beginning, wanting smut, fluff, and more smut. People kept saying to add as much as I could. But now I'm getting reviews/PMs that say that all the smut and fluff was distracting from the story and they're glad it's over. So I'm over here like, how the hell do I make everyone happy? But, hey, either way there's very little room for more smut/fluff. Well, I'll always fit fluff, but smut, there's pretty much no way. **

**But anyway, I guess I apologise for… conflicting interests? Hopefully the rest of this disgustingly long tale can please all of you.**

* * *

When John stepped back onto campus, he felt an odd mixture of relief and fear. He was back to being beside Sherlock all the time, which made him feel better, but now that they were back at Westwood, which meant that Moriarty had them right in his grasp. Who knew what he'd planned? Something horrible and something happening quite soon. It made John feel queasy.

After getting all their things back in their rooms—Mycroft had decided to hang around for a while in order to help Greg and Sherlock and mostly Greg move back in—they all went to a coffee shop so John could get something to ease his nerves. They'd tried to sit and talk, but apparently all of them were feeling the oncoming doom. The Holmes boys were almost entirely silent, looking deep in thought. John and Greg had tried to start conversation, but both of them were distracted by their pensive Holmeses.

Eventually, Greg was the one who gave up, and both and John got up and started out the door—and then went back when they realised both Sherlock and Mycroft hadn't gotten up.

"How long are they going to be like this?" Greg asked John as they all walked back to the dorm. Greg wasn't even bothering to be quiet about it, because it was unlikely either of them were paying attention. John glanced back at the two brothers walking a bit behind them, looking strikingly similar with the same look on their faces.

"Could be a while," John said. "Sherlock can be like this for days sometimes. Mycroft might be the same. But honestly," he added, "I'm just glad Sherlock's actually concerned about it now. He wasn't before."

"Only Sherlock could be uncaring when thinking about his own death."

"Right?" John agreed.

"But what I don't get," Greg said, "is what the hell they're thinking about. We don't know what Moriarty's planning, and we've got nothing to go off of."

"Well _we've_ got nothing to go off of. Those two? Probably they've noticed a hundred things. They're just trying to fit the pieces together."

"Well if they know anything, why can't they clue us in then?"

"Because they're Sherlock and Mycroft. Being considerate is of little concern to them."

"Maybe we could help."

"Probably they don't think so."

"Well that's irritating."

"If you want to continue whatever you have going with Mycroft, you're gonna have to get used to it."

"But Sherlock includes you."

"Eh. Sometimes. On some things. I'm in the dark more often than I'm in the light with him."

"And that doesn't bother you?"

John shrugged. "Sometimes it does, yeah. But I love him, so I have to live with his bad qualities. And he has to live with mine."

"You have less bad qualities than him."

"Don't be so sure."

They were on their floor now, and John almost didn't remember getting there so quickly. John opened the door to his room—

And stopped dead.

"Who the hell are you?" he blurted out when he saw the person sitting in Sherlock's chair.

She was probably in her early twenties, and she was beautiful, with dark hair that fell in loose curls halfway down her back. Her dress was far too short at the bottom and far too low cut at the top. John saw more of her in that moment than he'd seen of some of his ex-girlfriends. She had on dark red lipstick and she was looking up at the group coming into the room expectantly.

"Oh, it seems I got the wrong room," she said, her voice melodic and sensual.

John was confused, and he looked over at Greg to gauge his reaction… but Greg looked furious. Far too furious to just feel indignant that John and Sherlock had an uninvited guest.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he snarled, and John had never heard him sound like that. Who _was_ this?

"Okay, not completely the wrong room," the woman said when she met eyes with Greg. "How are you?"

"You have no right being here," Greg said.

"I go to this school, same as you," she retorted.

"But you don't live in this dorm, so I say get out."

"Come, I'm not causing any trouble." The smile on her face said quite the opposite, however. "I only wanted to chat."

"Not causing trouble? You broke into my friend's room!"

"I meant for it to be your room," she admitted. "I was misinformed. But, hey, I still found you."

"I didn't want to be found," said Greg, "now get out."

"I've been meaning to apologise, you know. About… the other men. I didn't realise until after we were over that I was quite silly, doing what I did."

John finally caught up with the situation. "Wait, Greg. Is this your ex? _The_ ex?"

"Oh, you talk about me? I'm flattered," said the woman.

"Don't be," said John before Greg could speak. "He doesn't say anything good, I assure you. Now I agree, get out."

"Oh, you don't even know me. You can't judge a book by its cover, now can you?"

"No," John was surprised to hear Sherlock say. He and Greg turned to see that Sherlock was looking at the woman in his chair in frustrated indignation. "I can't read a thing about you from your 'cover'," he said.

John wasn't quite sure what Sherlock meant by that at first, but then he caught up to this too. Sherlock couldn't deduce her. Or at least anything of importance.

She stood. "You must be Sherlock Holmes," she said.

"And how would you know that?" asked Sherlock in a would-be calm voice.

"She knows loads of things she shouldn't," Greg said. "When I met you, you reminded me of her. She just _knows_ things."

Sherlock was still looking at the woman standing in front of them, and John couldn't help but notice as his eyes scanned up and down her lithe frame, and angry jealousy flashed through his whole body.

"That was a nice introduction, Greg, but why don't we go with my name?" she shoved past John and Greg, somehow still gracefully, and stuck a hand out for Sherlock. "My name is Irene. I'd heard you were friends with Greg, and I honestly was hoping I might meet you. Brainy's the new sexy, after all."

"Irene, I really need you to get the hell out before I sock you," Greg said.

"You're too chivalrous to hit a woman," Irene said passively.

"You want to test it?" Greg replied, and John decided she really shouldn't, because he looked downright dangerous in his fury.

She cocked her head to the side, like he was a cute puppy that was getting snippy. "No, you're right, maybe not. I guess you don't want to talk. But if you do, you know my number." Then she turned back to Sherlock. "And if you want to talk," she added, "You'll have my number too."

And then she walked past them all, sauntering down the hall like some jungle cat of a human.

"That's your ex?" John finally asked.

"Erm… yeah," Greg said, his anger obviously entirely drained from his body to be replaced with embarrassment.

"Wow. She's… something." John looked up to Sherlock while he said it, and didn't miss that Sherlock was still looking at the doors of the lift, where she'd disappeared.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock's phone gave an audible vibration and he took it from his pocket, looked at it for a second, and then put it back in. Sherlock finally looked at John. "Yes?" he asked, as if nothing odd had just happened.

John thought maybe he was imagining what he'd seen, from Sherlock's completely ordinary demeanor. In fact, he was looking at John as lovingly as he always did (when he felt like being sentimental, that is). John decided to pack the paranoid jealousy away as best he could and try to forget about Irene's appearance in their room.

But somehow, he knew it wouldn't really be that easy.

* * *

**So, you all know what to do here. Review, follow, favourite, whatever pleases you. Reviews help me know what people are liking, and can effect what I write next, so please leave them. :]**


	43. Chapter 42: Beginning of the End

**I'd just like to say I got a review with the sentiment that someone wants me to kill off Irene, since she never actually dies in the show. I just thought that was quite funny. I won't say what she's doing in this story or if I actually plan to kill her, because 'SPOILERS!' (read that as River Song would, Doctor Who fans) but I just thought I'd mention that I enjoyed that review. That is all. **

* * *

Sherlock received his first text from her almost the moment she went down in the lift.

_You really shouldn't leave your mobile number written down in your desk. Any stranger could find it. _

Sherlock actually did not recall where his number would've been written, but she obviously had found it somewhere, so he must have written it down. He'd have to find it and burn it.

Sherlock was immediately intrigued by her.

Irene.

The incomprehensible woman.

_The_ woman.

Because Sherlock had never in his life looked at a woman and thought she was attractive. But this particular woman… well, it was hard not to notice.

But that was of little importance to Sherlock. Looks meant almost nothing to him—other than in respect to John. The real reason Irene was so fascinating to him was because she was utterly unreadable. He had looked at her for more than a minute as she and Greg argued—or, more, Greg tried to argue and she responded so calmly it was patronising—and he saw nothing but the painfully obvious, things anyone could see. Twenty-two years old, the same as Lestrade. Impeccable fashion sense. Slept around. Obviously clever. But other than that? Her background, anything of any consequence in her life, was completely hidden from him. He hardly saw how that was possible.

So now he _had_ to figure it out.

It was the project he had assigned himself on the side, when at all other times he was either doing his school work, spending time with John, or doing cases.

He and John were solving cases more than ever since they got back to school more than a month ago. Originally, John was completely against the idea, but then Sherlock reminded John that the only way to learn more about Moriarty was to investigate his crimes. Also, Moriarty had already promised Sherlock's death, so how could solving a few more of his crimes make things any worse? John had agreed, partially because Sherlock was making sense, but he knew it was also for another reason, even if John didn't even want to admit it to himself. Solving Moriarty's cases made him feel like he was thwarting the man. Made him feel like he was somehow helping to save Sherlock's life. And also, John seemed to be trying to keep himself as busy as possible. If he was done with his work, and there wasn't a case and Sherlock was occupied with something of his own, then he would go to the gym for hours. His muscles were getting even better from that, but Sherlock was worried. He'd never seen John so unable to sit still. When he tried to, he'd get up and pace. He was sleeping almost as little as Sherlock nowadays. Sometimes he'd take out his frustrations in angry sex, which Sherlock didn't mind in the slightest, but he didn't want John to be so unhappy.

John was again attempting to sit on his bed without twitching. It was hardly working. Sherlock was becoming concerned again.

"John," Sherlock said after more than an hour of silence, "you know, if you don't sleep soon, you're going to fall over."

John looked up to Sherlock and he felt a pang of sadness when he saw the deep purple bags around his eyes, the seemingly-permanent downturn of his mouth.

"I can't sleep," John said. "Not with what I know is coming."

"I'm working on it," Sherlock said. "I won't let him kill me, John."

Mostly a lie to make John feel better, but he also wanted it to be true. If just the thought of Sherlock dying made John like this, then what would he be like once he was actually gone? Sherlock couldn't leave John like this.

"You don't know how to stop him," John said.

"Not yet," he replied. "But I'm close to figuring it out."

Another lie.

And John didn't seem to be buying it, since there was still no hope in his face. He stood up though, and sat on Sherlock's lap, and Sherlock's arms wrapped tight around him like they always did. "You better be," John said, leaning down and giving him a kiss. "Now I'm going to go."

Sherlock kept from sighing. "The gym?"

"Yeah," John grunted, getting up and picking up his bag. "Phone me if a case comes up in the next two hours." And out the door he went.

Sherlock spent a bit staring at the door John had just walked out of, and then brought his attention to his phone. In his alone time was when he thought of his side-case.

Her most recent message read, _I'm not hungry, let's have dinner._

Sherlock grunted irritably. The woman made no sense. Why would she want dinner if she wasn't hungry?

There was a knock at the door. Sherlock knew who it was, but said nothing.

"Guessing John isn't there to let me in then?" Lestrade said through the door.

More silence, and then Lestrade pushed the door open without invitation.

"What is it with you and your aversion to opening the door for me?" Lestrade grunted, seemingly in a bad mood.

"Row with Mycroft?" asked Sherlock, not looking away from his phone.

"What? No," Lestrade snapped.

He was telling the truth there. "Oh, then with your father," Sherlock corrected. This time he didn't respond. "And you were hoping John would be here to talk about it, since my brother is most likely busy with a meeting with some foreign ambassador or king of wherever, but since John isn't here, you're considering whether you just want to talk at me about it."

"Well, since you said I'd be talking 'at' you, I guess that answers my question," Lestrade muttered. Another quiet moment, and then Lestrade said, "What the hell is so interesting on your phone anyway?"

And, quite uncharacteristically of him, actually, he grabbed the phone right from Sherlock's hand. Sherlock was so surprised by it that it took him a few moments to react. Those moments were long enough for Lestrade to look at the open text before Sherlock snatched the phone back.

"Fucking Christ," Lestrade said. "This isn't—'The Woman'? You have her in your phone as 'The Woman'?"

"Are you supposing you know who that message is from?"

"Yeah, I am, seeing as I dated Irene Adler for five years. I know how she talks. She always said she wanted to have dinner because she wasn't hungry."

Sherlock looked up. "Really? Then what does it mean?"

Lestrade's mouth opened and closed uselessly once or twice, and Sherlock knew from the furious look on his face that he had said something wrong, but wasn't sure what it was. "You're texting my ex and you want me to translate her for you?"

Ah. Jealousy. Of course. "I've never texted her back," said Sherlock. "She just texts me."

"Right. You just stare at the messages she sends you while John is gone. Nice, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt confused for a moment until he realised what Lestrade was implying. Sherlock stood and now he was feeling angry too. "What, you think I'm cheating on John?"

"Sure looks like it."

Sherlock's lip twitched for a few moments. Then, "Get out."

"What, you don't like that I guessed the truth? I don't know why I've wasted my time convincing myself you're capable of really caring about anyone. John doesn't deserve this."

Sherlock's breathing had gone hard and shallow. "Not that I have to explain myself to _you_, but I love John and I wouldn't do that to him."

"Then does he know you're texting her?"

"Get out," Sherlock repeated.

"Maybe I should let him know."

"_Get_. _OUT_!" Sherlock hollered, and Lestrade shook his head and stormed out, slamming the door hard on his way out. Sherlock sat stiffly in his chair and glared at the floor.

John wouldn't really mind if he knew about all the texts she'd sent, would he? Sherlock wished now that he understood what upset people more thoroughly, because he didn't see the problem. She was merely an experiment, a puzzle that he had to solve or it would drive him mad. He read what she sent, without responding, so that he could try to understand something about her. There wasn't much to glean out of a message, however, and he was having very little luck. What was her intention, texting him all the time? What on earth did she want from him?

A response, probably, but he wasn't desperate enough to actually respond yet.

His phone vibrated again.

_And how about that case the other day? With the boomerang. That was really something, solving that. I never would've guessed._

Sherlock gaped at the text. How did she know about the case? How was that possible?

Lestrade said she just knew things, but people _can't_ just know things. They have to learn them from somewhere.

And Sherlock could hardly stop his fingers from setting to work on a response. He'd pressed 'send' before he even consciously realised it.

How did you know about the case? – SH

_Oh, good, I got the right number. I started to wonder after the twenty-seventh unanswered text. Let's have dinner. _

The woman was infuriating. How was he ever supposed to get answers from her with responses like this all the time?

That wasn't an answer. – SH

_We could talk about your case, and other things, over dinner._

Or we could talk about it over text. I don't take anyone to dinner. – SH

_Other than your John? He gets dinner._

Sherlock scowled at the message.

Well you aren't John. – SH

_Obviously. So no dinner tonight then? _

Sherlock set his phone down in irritation. It vibrated again.

_Not tonight, fine. Another time then. _

Sherlock read it, but had expected something like this. He went back to his work then, wishing John would come back.

And that was the first time Sherlock gave in and responded to Irene Adler.

But it was not the last.

* * *

**I'm getting to the point that there's not much to say at the end of chapters anymore. Probably I could just not do author's notes, but they're just so much fun. Just please review, as usual. **

**Oh, P.S., this is totally another non-ominous title. :]**


	44. Chapter 43: Secrets

John was pacing, and Sherlock was fiddling with his phone, when he thought of it.

"I haven't seen Greg in two weeks," he said out loud. He usually stopped by the room every other day, just to talk. Sometimes even _every_ day. But he'd been nowhere to be seen for a while now.

Sherlock looked up in a bored way. "I imagine he's busy, with his work, with _Mycroft_."

John was a little surprised at the contempt in Sherlock's voice, but that was how he talked about most things, so it wasn't that odd.

"What've something's wrong though?" John asked.

"Nothing's wrong, John," he said, looking at his phone still. "Don't worry about Lestrade."

John looked at Sherlock with his head tilted to the side. Why did he sound like he didn't want John to go see Greg?

"Yeah, you're probably right," John said. "Well," he added, "I'm off to the gym."

Sherlock looked up again. "Again? Didn't you go this morning?"

"Can't help it. It's becoming a compulsion."

"Addiction is unhealthy, no matter what the outlet is."

"I'm not addicted."

"Addiction," Sherlock rattled off, "is the condition of being abnormally or compulsively dependent on some habit."

John couldn't argue with that one affectively, seeing as he said the word 'compulsion' himself. "You're telling me working out is bad for me?" John asked defensively.

"When you do it this much, yes," Sherlock said. "Being dependent on anything is bad for you."

"Oh, so basically you're addicted to anything you're even mildly fond of, then."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's attack, the words apparently rolling right off. "You may be right," Sherlock said, "but striving to be like me probably shouldn't be a goal of yours."

John grunted irritably. "Right. Well, I'm still going. Bye."

He went out the door before Sherlock could say anything else, but then he stood there a moment and considered Sherlock's words. He did go to the gym every time he started thinking too much, and any time Sherlock was irritating him… and when he was just bored… maybe he was starting a problem. Maybe he needed to cool it.

But, in his mildly pointless irritation with his boyfriend, which he admitted to himself only silently was probably only caused by sleep deprivation, he didn't want to go back in and admit he was taking Sherlock's advice. So what to do?

He glanced at Greg's door.

He was pretty curious as to where their sub-warden had been for the past two weeks.

He resolutely knocked on the door. Greg opened it and John noticed he looked uncomfortable.

"John, hey," he said, not opening the door more than a crack. "What's up?"

John frowned. "What, is Mycroft here?"

"Huh? No, why do you ask?"

"Then… can I come in?" John asked awkwardly.

"Oh. Oh, erm, yeah." He opened the door all the way and John hesitated in the doorway.

"Erm… have I done something wrong?" John enquired.

"What?" Greg asked, sounding honestly confused. "No, of course not."

John believed it enough that he came in and Greg shut the door behind him. John sat in Greg's computer chair and Greg settled onto his bed. "It's just, you haven't been over in a while. Thought… dunno, that you might be mad or something?"

Now Greg rolled his eyes. "You live with Sherlock bloody Holmes and you think the reason someone would stop coming to your room is because _you_ did something?"

John blinked. That did make a bit more sense, since John couldn't remember doing anything offensive, but he still wasn't sure what Greg meant. "What happened with Sherlock?"

Greg shrugged, leaning back on his bed. "Oh, you know. He's a dick sometimes. He was just being himself."

John was officially suspicious. "But Sherlock's himself all the time and you've never let it bother you before. Something must've happened. Something different than usual."

Greg was uncomfortable again, biting his lip and looking pensive. "It's nothing, really. Or, it might be nothing. I dunno."

"Greg… what happened?" John said more forcefully.

"I just… I didn't want to tell you in case I was wrong."

"Well now you're going to tell me either way, because you're worrying me."

Greg sighed. "It's just… I came over a few weeks back, and you weren't there, and I kind of grabbed his phone, because he was irritating me… and he was texting Irene. My ex."

John didn't know how to respond to that. "Well, he's allowed to have friends. I'm not possessive or anything." It was true, really… but somehow, it didn't feel true in this context.

Greg nodded. "He said he wasn't responding or anything, it's just… I know Irene. And if Irene decided she wants Sherlock… She usually gets what she wants."

John considered this for a long moment. "Well who says just because they're talking means that she wants him?"

"First of all, because she's a slut," said Greg bluntly. "She fucks everything that moves. And also… the text was her asking him to dinner. Does that sound platonic to you?"

John was quiet again, looking at the ground.

"I'm sorry," Greg muttered. "I really hope I'm wrong."

"But that still doesn't explain why you aren't talking to him," John said, still looking at the ground.

"Sure it does," said Greg. "If he's honestly cheating on you, I don't want anything to do with him." John actually flinched at the mention of 'cheating', but Greg didn't notice. "And, even if he isn't," Greg added, "I don't particularly want to chat with him if he's chatting with _her_. She broke my heart in a thousand ways and he's talking with her, or at least letting her talk at him, like nothing's wrong. It just pisses me off. He can be friends with her if he wants, I guess, but I don't want anything to do with him if that's the case."

John nodded. "Okay," he murmured.

"Are—" Greg chuckled. "I was about to ask if you're alright, but that's probably a really stupid question."

John gave a dark chuckle in return. "Yeah, not feeling so 'alright' at the moment," he muttered, but he didn't really know how he was feeling in the first place. His anger was gone though, he knew that. Jealousy was there, obviously. He felt sad too.

But really, more than anything, he just felt tired. Really, really tired. He rubbed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath.

"Well," John said, standing up, "Thanks for telling me."

"I don't feel like I deserve a thank you for this," Greg mumbled. "I just feel really bad now."

"No, I'm glad you told me. It's better than me being the idiot that doesn't realise what's going on right under his nose."

Greg nodded again. "But I might be wrong, you know. It might be nothing. She might just be texting him and he's totally ignoring it."

John nodded again. "Okay. Well, got to go," John said, but he wasn't sure where he was going. He went out the door as Greg looked at him sympathetically, and John shut the door a little harder than he meant to. He opened the door again. "Sorry," he said, "didn't mean to slam it."

"It's okay," Greg replied, his voice still subdued. God, John just didn't want his pity at all.

John stood in the vacant hallway, not sure what to do. He looked down at his gym bag. He really didn't want to work out now, he knew that. He was over being mad at Sherlock over the spat… so really, his only option was to go back to the room. But what would he say? How was he supposed to breach that? 'Hey, Sherlock, I only wondered if you were secretly two-timing me with Greg's slutty ex. No offence if I'm wrong.'

John didn't have much time to think about it though, because his body was on autopilot back to the room and before he knew it, he was opening the door. He set his bag down.

"Did you realise I was right?" asked Sherlock, that beautiful, know-it-all smirk on his face. John looked at him sadly, feeling his heart wrench painfully. John looked at his whole body—but mostly at his face—like he might never see him again and he needed to try to memorise it. Sherlock's smirk was gone fairly quickly. "John, what's wrong?" he asked, concern spiking his voice.

"Erm—oh, nothing," John said, trying for a smile. "Just decided I'm too tired for the gym."

Sherlock didn't look totally convinced. Or, he didn't go back to his work, which showed in itself that he was concerned.

So John went over to Sherlock, taking a seat in his lap.

"I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled. "I love you too."

John remembered when it was hard for him to say. Now it wasn't. And John believed him, of course. Sherlock loved him.

But then why, when Sherlock said it, was there a sinking in his gut?

"I love you so much," John said, and he bit his cheek when his eyes started to burn. He kept the betraying tears from showing themselves much.

But Sherlock noticed, of course. "John, what is it? Tell me."

John took a deep breath. "Just worried. You know, like always."

Sherlock sighed. "You'll worry yourself to death at this rate."

"I know," John said. "I need to sleep."

"Yes, you do."

John got up and took off his shoes and shirt, getting under the covers.

"Want me to join you?" asked Sherlock.

"Erm, no, it's okay. You look busy."

"Nothing important," Sherlock said, setting down his mobile.

"What're you doing on there anyway?" John asked, though he was telling himself not to.

Sherlock only shrugged. "Sleep well," he said.

John swallowed hard and nodded, turning and facing the wall so Sherlock couldn't see his face.

And John listened carefully as he heard more clicking, as Sherlock messed with his phone again. Again, his heart have a painful jolt.

He'd have to talk to Sherlock about it eventually, he knew… but right now, it hurt too bad to consider talking. He just needed to sleep. Then, maybe, he could be reasonable about it. Maybe Sherlock wasn't even talking to her at all right now, and Greg was wrong about the entire situation.

But he doubted it.

* * *

**This chapter made me really sad to write. Just sayin'. Sigh. I'm a mean writer, doing this to John. :[**


	45. Chapter 44: A Catastrophic Toilet Break

**So close to the end, everyone. It's strange. Anywho, sorry this chapter took a few days, but here it is. **

**I'd like to say it's happier than the previous one was.**

**...**

**But then I would be lying.**

* * *

Sherlock had always found that, when he worked on a case, and he put together piece by piece what a person had done when they committed a crime, that there was always one thing they really did wrong. The one thing that crumbled down their entire plan. Sometimes it was their personality in itself causing a flaw in the master plot. Much of the time, that was true. But then there was the mistake. If they hadn't have done that one thing wrong, maybe they'd never have been caught.

The fatal mistake.

Sherlock, about two months after school had started, made his fatal mistake that brought everything in his life crashing down.

And that mistake was going to use the toilet.

Even Sherlock Holmes could not ignore his natural bodily functions for very long. And he had to take a piss. It was just a fact of life. So he went, and during the minute or two he was gone, everything had unraveled.

Because there was a very subdued John in the room, one that had been acting downright depressed for weeks now. Hardly ever talking. He went from being overactive to almost never moving at all. He just lay in bed almost all the time, barely sleeping or eating. Sherlock didn't think he was capable of being so concerned about a person, but John had proven him wrong.

And the other thing that was in the room with John was Sherlock's mobile phone. Sherlock hadn't thought to bring it with him.

So Sherlock had been gone not two minutes before he came back into the room, and John was standing stalk still, staring down at the phone in his hands, a look on his face that Sherlock couldn't describe as only one emotion, but a mixture of many.

Hurt. Rage. Betrayal. Sadness.

Sherlock stood in the doorway for a moment. "John?" he asked carefully.

John looked up at him, still not seeming to have chosen which emotion he was actually feeling. Then he looked back to the phone and read, in a hard, emotionless voice, "I know you haven't eaten. Let's have dinner."

Yes, he knew from the moment he came in that John had seen that. And he'd also known for several weeks now that if John knew about the messages, he would be unhappy, but he hadn't been quite sure what exactly he would feel or say.

John didn't seem to know yet either.

"John…" Sherlock said again, stepping into the room and shutting the door.

"You call her 'The Woman'?" he asked. He chuckled, shaking his head, the sound not having an ounce of mirth. "What does that even mean?"

Sherlock swallowed hard. "It doesn't really mean anything, honestly."

"Oh, good, we're going to start this conversation off with another lie," John snapped. "Because I'm not completely done with your lying, seeing as you've lied to me a thousand times in the past two months."

"That wasn't a lie," said Sherlock. "It's really stupid. 'The Woman' as in the only one I ever thought was worth wasting a moment of thought. All other woman were of no interest."

"And you find Irene interesting, then?"

Yes, Sherlock thought he'd talked to Lestrade. Now he knew, because there was no other way he would know that 'The Woman' was Irene.

"From a scientific mindset, yes," Sherlock said steadily.

John pursed his lips like Sherlock had told a joke he didn't find funny. "Really? You're going to go that route? She's an experiment?"

Sherlock glared at John. "Well she is!"

John crossed his arms. "Okay, fine, Sherlock. How is she an experiment?"

"She says things that make no sense," Sherlock explained quickly. "She, in general, has clouded motivations—"

"Her _motivations_ seem quite clear to me, and they have something to do with your trousers."

Sherlock plowed on, ignoring John's addition. "I can't read anything about her from looking at her—"

"So you look at her a lot, do you?"

Sherlock stopped. "Only from the day at the beginning of the semester."

"So you're telling me you've never gone to dinner with her? After she's invited you over and over again?"

"No, I haven't," Sherlock said forcefully. "I have no desire to go on a social outing with her."

"Oh, so you never responded to the messages then? Like you told Lestrade?"

Sherlock fought to keep his face even. "Well—"

"So you have responded? You lied then too?"

"No," Sherlock inserted quickly, "That wasn't a lie. I haven't lied about anything. At the time, I hadn't responded. But… I couldn't get my data with one-way communication."

Another humourless laugh. "Please, you're actually expecting me to swallow that?"

"Swallow what?!" Sherlock argued, finally starting to get truly angry. "That was all the truth! I've never lied to you, John."

"That's complete bullocks. You've been lying to me for ages about texting her. Every time I asked, you said you weren't doing anything."

"I said I wasn't doing anything important, and that's true!"

"Well I honestly don't believe a word that comes out of your mouth right now. For all I know, you've been fucking her for weeks now!"

Sherlock clenched his jaw and his fists. "Is that what you think, then?" he asked evenly.

"I—well—I don't know what to think," John spluttered, so furious he couldn't even speak coherently. "All I know is that if there really isn't anything going on, I feel you would've told me. I thought we were close enough for that. If you'd've told me you were just trying to figure her out, I probably would have thought it was funny, but you chose to hide it from me. People don't hide things unless they're ashamed, Sherlock."

Sherlock was looking around, knowing that in part, John was right. "Hiding it was stupid. That's true," Sherlock said. "It's just… When Lestrade saw the text, he automatically assumed I was cheating on you. I figured you would believe the same. And you do."

"Because it's a logical assumption when you hide from everyone that you're talking to someone like that. Especially considering she's someone who obviously wants you."

Sherlock couldn't really argue with that either. It did seem she wanted something from him, physically or emotionally, but he never planned to give it to her.

"But I don't want her," Sherlock said. "I want you."

John took a deep breath, but it didn't calm his angry shaking. John was obviously in a rage, to the point that he wasn't going to be able to calm down. Was not going to be as easy to assuage as usual. "Well maybe you should have thought of that earlier. Because I'm not even a little convinced you haven't been seeing her since you met her. I'm not convinced you don't want to go and meet her right now. You look ready to go somewhere, in fact."

"I was going to the library," Sherlock said weakly, because it was the truth, but it did sound an awful lot like a pathetic excuse.

John seemed to think so too. "You know what?" John said. "I don't care. Go meet her. Go fuck her. Whatever. Makes no difference to me." John plopped down on his bed, facing the wall.

"What, so that's it then?" Sherlock sneered. "What, are you—ending us?"

John turned. "Maybe I am." He looked back at the wall again.

Sherlock was seething mad. He was probably himself right now as much as John was—which was not at all. He was nearly seeing red. He was telling the truth, and still John didn't trust him. What an idiot! John was an idiot just like everyone else on the planet. Not interesting at all.

But Sherlock _did_ have someone interesting to meet.

"Fine," Sherlock said. "Then I will go see her. Don't expect me back."

"What, for tonight or ever?" John snapped.

"Not sure yet. We'll see."

And Sherlock stormed out and slammed the door behind him, texting Irene.

I'm coming to you. The front of campus – SH

A quick response.

_Sounds perfect. See you soon._

With every step, Sherlock's anger was being replaced with… he didn't know what to call it. Not really sadness, or regret, or anything recognisable as an emotion at all.

Emptiness. Every part of him that was a moment before anger at John, at Lestrade, at himself, was turning into an apathetic void in his chest, a void that burned with pain like a wildfire in his chest. He'd known what caring did. He'd known from the beginning. It was stupid to put his heart out there. To have a heart at all. If Sherlock was very, very lucky, his heart would melt away with the acidic agony of his conclusive row with John, leaving nothing there to ever be hurt again.

But if everything in him that ever was effected by John was burned away, then what would be left of Sherlock? Would anything be left at all?

Part of him wanted to go back. To beg John to believe him.

But in the end, Sherlock had too much pride for that. And before he could decide not to, he saw her in the distance. She wore a big black coat and had her hair up in an elegant up-do. Still, he saw very little about her.

See, this was interesting. Who cared about someone dull like John?

"I never thought you'd agree to meet me," Irene said when he was close.

"I didn't think so either."

She smirked. "You and John've been fighting. How sad."

Sherlock glared. "Shut up."

She looked at him patronisingly. "Always the gentleman. Shall we go?"

He nodded stiffly and let her lead him, paying little attention to where she was actually walking.

At first.

Then he thought, really thought, for the first time since John had gotten mad at him. The emotions had clouded his head, but now…

As Irene kept walking, and was going deeper into campus instead of leaving and grabbing a cab or something, everything made perfect sense to Sherlock. Irene appearing in his room and being unreadable, and being such an easy target for jealousy, and being such a volatile fuel for quarrel. Texting him all the time until his curiosity was so great he just _had_ to meet her.

How she just _knew_ things.

But she didn't _really_ know things. Someone was telling her.

"I never did find how you got my number," Sherlock said. "The first text you sent me was telling me that I shouldn't keep my number sitting around in my desk. Except it wasn't in my desk. It never was. That isn't how you got it."

Irene looked back and smiled. "Oh, you're far too clever. What are you going to do, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock sighed inwardly as he looked at her steadily. Did it matter what he did now? Even if he avoided seeing Moriarty now, he wouldn't be able to avoid him forever. And, plus, maybe now was the best time. John was mad at him. Furious. Maybe he'd be of the sentiment he was better off without Sherlock. And John wouldn't go looking for Sherlock tonight, that was for sure, meaning that he couldn't try some mad, bound-to-fail rescue attempt.

And Sherlock felt that shouldn't have mattered to him right now. What would happen to John. But of course that was on his mind. It didn't matter how frustrating John could be. It didn't matter if John hated him now. Sherlock always wanted him to be safe. And to be happy.

And maybe John really would be better off without him.

"Nothing," Sherlock finally said. "If Moriarty wants to play, we'll play."

She smirked again. "Oh, a brave one, are you? I like that."

And she continued to drag him to the Natural Sciences building.

To _the_ rooftop.

To his death.


	46. Chapter 45: Coincidence

John lay and stared at his wall for twenty seconds before he couldn't sit still anymore. He sat up slowly, like his muscles didn't quite work anymore. He felt sore everywhere for no particular reason. He felt sore on the inside too, but he could explain that.

He didn't know what to do. A big part of him wanted to run after Sherlock and tell him that…

Tell him what? That he didn't mind if Sherlock was sleeping with someone else? That wasn't the truth.

Tell him that he trusted him? Sadly, that wasn't the truth either. John wanted to believe Sherlock. He hadn't seen a lie in his eyes. And Sherlock didn't often lie to spare another's feelings, but he'd been more prone to it lately. Should John have been relieved that Sherlock learned to lie for the benefit of others? Be flattered that Sherlock went to the trouble to lie for him?

He didn't really know what to feel, just like he hadn't for weeks now, ever since Greg told him about Irene.

Greg still never came over, because he was so furious with Sherlock, so John sometimes went and talked to him. Usually in the middle of the night, when Sherlock slept—which was a more frequent occurrence than it was in the beginning. Somehow, Greg was always awake. Maybe he suspected John would come. Maybe he wasn't sleeping either.

It was the only thing John could think to do. So he got up, feeling like he was moving in slow motion, like the room was spinning. He knocked at Greg's door and his knock was half as loud as he intended.

Greg opened the door and his face automatically became concerned.

"John, are you _crying_?" he asked, his voice sounding more surprised about it than worried at first.

John, in confusion, lifted his hand up and wiped at his eye. Moisture was indeed there, pooling heavily in his eyes and just on the edge of falling. He chuckled darkly. "I suppose I am, yeah," he muttered.

Greg's face went dark. "What did Sherlock do?"

John bit his lip and looked at the ground. In response, Greg pulled him into the room and set him in his chair at his desk. This was the first time John noticed Mycroft was there, sitting on Greg's bed. John didn't really care at this point if Mycroft listened too.

"What, John?" Greg prompted. "Did he admit to it?"

"Well… no. But I saw the texts. And that he's been responding to them."

"He told me he wasn't responding," Greg said.

"Well, he is now, whether or not he was then." John sighed. "Then I got really cross and yelled at him and told him he should just go meet her, because I don't care, and he went."

"Wait…" Greg muttered. "So are you two…"

"Over? I think so, yeah," John said. He was surprised his voice was staying so steady. "He said not to expect him back, and I said 'you mean tonight, or ever?' and he said he wasn't sure yet."

"So you mean he might not come back at all?" Greg asked quietly. "Just vanish?"

"Would you put that past Sherlock?" John replied. "I might just wake up and all his stuff will have disappeared from our room. Or maybe all the stuff will stay and he'll just never come back." Then John, not really knowing why, looked to Mycroft. His stance was still, but the look on his face… was patronising. Like John and Greg were being stupid. "Mycroft, what is it?"

"Oh, nothing," Mycroft replied.

"No, you've got an opinion on this whole thing. I can tell."

Greg chimed in. "I've told Mycroft my theory that Sherlock is cheating and he doesn't believe it."

John didn't understand why, but the words caused his heart to leap with hope. He latched onto it, looking at Mycroft again. "You don't? Why not?"

Mycroft looked like he didn't plan to answer at first, but then he sighed. "Because my brother opening up for one person romantically is shocking enough. I don't think he'd be capable of doing it twice."

John wanted to believe it so badly. He even saw the logic in it. But then he thought about Irene, how beautiful she was, how mystifying he knew she was to Sherlock.

"It's improbable maybe," John said. "But not impossible. And if anyone thought the impossible could happen, it was Sherlock." John laughed then, it bubbling hysterically from his throat. "Shit, I'm talking about him like he's dead."

And John then considered that fact that whether or not John was with him, he might be dead soon.

And the fact that the only reason Sherlock was even trying to survive was because of John.

"John?" Greg said sharply. "John, calm down."

John didn't understand what he meant until he realised he was sucking breath in and out desperately. Starting to hyperventilate.

"Sherlock's going to die," John said.

"If he doesn't care, why should you?" Greg said.

John looked at him incredulously. "He's your friend, Greg. How the hell could you say that?"

Greg looked mostly petulant, but John saw the guiltiness under it. He was angry with Sherlock, sure, but he didn't wish him dead.

Greg finally sighed tiredly, rubbing his eyes. "What can you do about it, John? Nothing."

"And he doesn't seem to want my help anyway," John muttered. "He could die a week from now and I might never know."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Have you so little faith in me that you think I wouldn't inform you if my brother died?"

John had nearly forgotten Mycroft was there at all. "Right, sorry," he murmured. John subconsciously got out his phone, as if there might be a text from Sherlock. Of course, there wasn't. "Wonder what they're doing right now," John mumbled to himself. "Studying for an exam?" he asked dryly.

"Want me to lie for your benefit?" Greg asked.

"Well it's barely been thirty minutes. How bad could it be?"

Greg scoffed. "I know Irene. It could be pretty damn bad."

"So," Mycroft said, and both John and Greg looked over in interest at the tone of his voice, "would you call Irene morally ambiguous?"

Greg barked out a laugh. "Yeah, something like that."

"Would you even say she's prone to immoral behaviour?"

Greg looked over to Mycroft. "Well, she cheated on me for five years. Does that count?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Not quite what I meant, but it could be a gateway to worse, I suppose. It does display a tendency for selfishness."

"What're you talking about, Myc?"

"How selfish is she _really_, Gregory?" asked Mycroft. "How far would she go to get what she wanted?"

"I… erm… I guess I never really thought of her that way. She's not normally malicious, I don't think… but would she do bad things to get what she wanted? Yeah, probably."

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully.

"Myc?" Greg asked apprehensively.

"It's only," Mycroft said, "isn't it odd that, out of nowhere, your ex-girlfriend appears in Sherlock's room, probably the only person who could ever intrigue my brother, and happens to gain a specific interest in him? How did she get the wrong room? How did she get Sherlock's number? I'm certain _he_ didn't give it to her."

John and Greg were gaping at him. "You're not actually suggesting what I think you're suggesting, right?" Greg said.

"Most likely, I am," Mycroft said.

"So… you're saying that Sherlock could be on his way to his own death… right now?" John asked, his voice oddly blank.

Mycroft stood up. "I need to make a few calls."

"Calls?" Greg sputtered. "You're going to say _that_ and then leave for business? Who've you got to phone right this instant?"

Mycroft went out the door without answering.

"You know, he's a pain in the arse," said Greg.

"You're the one dating him."

"Well you've got a pain of your own."

John was looking at the ground again, and he was considering Mycroft's words. Because, really, what were the odds that Sherlock met a woman that interested him in their actual bedroom? He had a point there. And from what Greg said, she seemed self-centered and unpleasant enough to do it.

"Greg," John muttered. "What if he's right?"

Greg sighed. "Well… if we assume he's wrong, Sherlock could die. We can't afford that."

"I thought you didn't want to speak to him anymore," John muttered.

"What, you think I fucking want him dead then? Plus…" he added, "Irene's a manipulative bitch. It's not that surprising that he caught him in her web."

"Doesn't mean that it's okay for him to cheat."

"Of course not," Greg said. "But we don't know he actually was."

John didn't really know what to think.

"What the hell do we do?" Greg asked.

John put his head in his hands. "I have no fucking clue."

* * *

**Hey. So I thought that this story was going to end at forty-seven chapters, but I'm adding an extra one on the end (and by that I mean MY numbering on chapters. Since I called the first chapter "prologue" and the second chapter "chapter one", my numbering is all fucked up. As in this is chapter forty-five, so there will be three more). Because I'm giving Sherlock the last word, since he narrates the even chapters.**

**Also, the next chapter may or may not be really fucking long. I haven't finished it yet, but I think it'll be far above average in length in comparison to the other chapters in this story. Just so you know. **


	47. Chapter 46: The Devil Wears Westwood

**So I've been meaning to mention since the beginning that I post my chapters un-edited, meaning that those of you that read the chapters as soon as they come out probably get typos. I apologise for that, but it's just I get so excited when I finish a chapter that I post it immediately, and then I usually go back and check it within twenty-four hours. Probably I still miss some things with the second edit, but that's just because I'm human. I probably ****_should_**** get a beta, but I am an English major (and actually I beta other people's work quite frequently myself) and thus obsessed with correct grammar and things, so I feel like I wouldn't like other people trying to check my work. I wouldn't trust their judgment. Haha.**

**On that note, I actually changed the very last part of the last chapter (chap 45) after I posted it. Took out part of it, to be precise. I checked and only five people saw it before the revision, but I thought I would inform you. It's not a really important change, since it was removal and not addition of information. But still.**

**Oh, and this chapter isn't as disgustingly long as I feared it would be, luckily. **

**Anyway, on with the show!**

* * *

Sherlock was silent as Irene led him up the steps, as they walked out onto the roof. He saw Moriarty, sitting on the ledge. He had an MP3 player shoved in his ears and Sherlock could swear he heard the song "Stayin' Alive" playing. If that really was the song he was listening to, it was amazingly ironic.

Sherlock walked farther onto the roof, towards Moriarty, who was staring up at him with big, knowing eyes, chewing his gum and listening to his music. Sherlock stopped somewhere halfway between Moriarty and Irene.

"I'm here," he said. "Just as you wanted."

Moriarty took out his ear buds and set the MP3 player on the ledge, standing up. "You came of your own free will," he said. Then he grinned. "Were you just excited to see me?"

Sherlock kept looking at him expressionlessly. "I more assumed there was no way to permanently cancel this meeting, so why postpone?"

Moriarty nodded solemnly. "Probably wise."

"Hey," Irene said, calling attention to herself. Sherlock thought vaguely it was a poor idea to do that. He thought it've been smarter to just slip away silently. But he didn't say anything, as he wasn't particularly happy with her at the moment. "What about my payment?"

Moriarty nodded again. "Yes. Yes, your payment."

Sherlock had a second's notice, just seeing the red dot appear on her forehead, before a gunshot rang through the area and she fell to the floor.

"What, were her terms too steep?" asked Sherlock dryly.

"No. I'd've paid her, but she interrupted our conversation. It made me unhappy."

Sherlock decided right there that probably the only thing that could save Sherlock at the moment was the fact that Moriarty was so impulsive. He changed his mind on things quite suddenly and then acted on the change immediately. Maybe Sherlock could use that to his advantage… somehow.

"You don't seem upset that she's dead. Are you cross that she got between you and John?"

Sherlock had half a mind to ask how he knew that, but bit his tongue on it.

But Moriarty spoke as if Sherlock _had_ asked. "You know, I didn't just pick her because she was a pretty bird and she knocked on my door, Sherlock. I'd had an eye on her for a long while, and _I_ propositioned _her_, because I knew she would be perfect."

"Perfect for what?" Sherlock asked, even though he didn't want to be curious.

"Oh, come, Sherlock, think for a moment. I know you're cleverer than that. What has Irene achieved in the short time you've known of her?"

Sherlock only needed a few moments to consider before it all seemed quite clear, and he again felt that something had been seriously wrong with his head of late.

The obvious was the fact that Sherlock couldn't read her. It was where the interest was derived. Moriarty must've noticed that about her long ago. She was just one of those strange people that was hard to decipher from the outside, but not nearly as much of the interesting puzzle that Sherlock had supposed. But it went deeper than just that.

Because she was beautiful and seductive, she made John mad at Sherlock. Because she was Lestrade's ex-girlfriend, she made Lestrade mad at Sherlock. Mycroft was keeping his distance because Lestrade was mad.

"You picked her because you knew she would make all of the people I care about angry with me."

"Good," Moriarty said. "Good, I was about to lose all hope in your ability to think. Not only mad though, Sherlock. They may never talk to you again. And now, there's no way they'll come to look for you. At least not tonight. They're too frustrated."

And Sherlock told John himself not to except him tonight. Or maybe ever.

God, what had Sherlock done? He'd played into Moriarty's plans maybe even better than Moriarty himself had hoped he would. By leaving to see Irene, he set John even more against him. He was probably back at the room, furious. No, John wouldn't be coming to look for him tonight.

But then Sherlock realised that maybe that was a good thing. This meant that none of them would put enough thought into where Sherlock might be to figure out the truth. That meant that John or Lestrade or any of them wouldn't try some ridiculous rescue attempt that could get them killed.

If Sherlock had to die, then probably this was the best way to do it. With John mad enough he might not even care that much.

And Sherlock, right there, knew that there wasn't much point in trying to live. First of all, he was living for John. Now John wasn't there. What was he going to do if he lived? What was left? Nothing that mattered. And secondly…

Sherlock didn't want to admit it, not at all, but…

Moriarty was smarter than him. Way smarter. Had tricked him in every possible way.

And Sherlock had failed. That was the final truth of it. The one time Sherlock really needed to perform one of those miracles John was convinced he could perform, he had come up with nothing. He'd made the situation worse. He'd broken John's heart and was getting himself killed in the same day.

It really couldn't get much worse.

"But," Moriarty said, "enough with your self-loathing. Down to business! What you're actually doing here. You want to know, I'm guessing. The bottom line is, you have to die. But I'd rather it look like it wasn't a crime at all. You know, makes things interesting when the Yard doesn't know what happened. You, of all people, know that. So you're going to throw yourself off of this roof and plummet to your death."

"Will I?" Sherlock asked, picking at his coat. No matter how distraught he was feeling, he wasn't going to let it dim his mind or show on his face. That'd been his problem for months now, letting his emotions get in the way of his head. He was going to be completely rational in his last moments, he promised himself that.

"You will," Moriarty said. "Or I'll kill your friends."

Sherlock kept a firm hold on his calm, making sure his face didn't even twitch. "You mean the ones that, thanks to you, don't ever want to talk to me again? And why would that matter to me?

"Because you're weak," Moriarty said. "And you still love them. As we speak, there are snipers trained on them, that will continue to be trained on them for as long as I deem fit. And unless they see your body fall on down within the hour, your friends will be killed. If anything happens to me, same thing. You have to die. For them."

"Who says I care if you kill them?" asked Sherlock, with a painful, guilty twisting in his stomach at the words. Moriarty was right on one thing. His affection for them had made him weak, in some ways. Maybe stronger in other ways, for a time, but that didn't matter now.

Moriarty smiled. "I see through you, Sherlock. After I created you, I think I know you better than that."

"Created me?" Sherlock chuckled. "I don't think you were part of that process, actually."

"No, not _that_ process," Moriarty agreed. "But the process of killing your mother, I was a part of that."

Sherlock blinked once. Twice. Tried to think of something to say. Couldn't.

"What?" he finally went with.

"Repetition is extremely irritating, you know."

Sherlock was taking a moment to reboot. Then, "My mother was killed by a random act of gang violence when I was eleven. Somehow, I doubt that has to do with you."

"That has everything to do with me." Sherlock was silent, and Moriarty sighed. "I told myself I wasn't going to monologue, but the look on your face is just too good. So I'll tell you." He walked over to the ledge by his MP3 player, sitting down. He looked through his songs a moment, an audible ticking breaking the heavy silence. Then he looked up at Sherlock slowly—always overly dramatic. "I've been there in your life since the beginning. Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned hero. The villain was already supplied." He gestured at himself. "But I needed someone that could compete with me. Such a person seemed not to exist. And then I heard about a young boy, clever enough to be called 'genius'. I was intrigued. But the boy—you, if you hadn't guessed—was kind, weak. He needed to be strengthened. Which meant I needed to form you into what I desired, like a smith working on a piece of metal. After the metal goes into the flame, it's dunked into the water to cool. All I needed was to set your life on fire, and then the cooling process that created a semi-formidable enemy would happen on its own. Seeing the only good you knew die would be enough to take the good out of you. I knew that much." He paused again. "It wasn't a random act of violence that killed your mother, Sherlock. It was me."

Sherlock was wishing a thousand deaths on the man in front of him, the man that made Sherlock believe in evil. Real evil, like in silly fairy tales. That's what James Moriarty was.

But Sherlock kept himself from reacting still. He could hardly regret her death now, so many years later. It hardly mattered anymore. But still, he was bubbling furiously on the inside. He wanted to make the fury simmer away, but it wouldn't submit to his control. His emotions, yet again, were attempting to get the best of him.

But he kept on listening, and used every bit of his energy to look utterly indifferent to Moriarty's tale.

"And then," Moriarty said, "I just bided my time. Waited for you to grow up. Then I could defeat you myself. You certainly made things interesting by starting to actually solve my cases. I had hoped that your mother's killing would not only work to make you hard-hearted, but also give you a subconscious desire to want to put killers away for good. That worked exactly as planned. And it was quite the pleasant surprise to see that you were even cleverer than I'd imagined, because you could stop my crimes in their tracks. I began to wonder, for a moment, if you weren't ordinary at all. If you were like me." Moriarty gave a mad laugh. "**_WRONG_**!" he hollered, the word ringing echoingly through campus. How people didn't notice it was beyond Sherlock. "Because then," he continued, dramatic sadness in his voice, "you had to go and _FALL_ _IN_ **_LOVE_**!" He covered his face with his hand. "Sherlock Holmes, my great puppet, fell in _love_." He apparently needed a moment of silence after that one, as he shook his head in dismay. But then he looked up to Sherlock again somberly. "And then you were weak all over again, all my work to make you someone worth fighting against wasted, and had only become a nuisance to me. Which was exactly why I started the letters. I was going to drag this out, for years and years, but then, when you fell for John Watson, I knew you were not the worthy opponent I'd hoped you were. You now were just an ordinary man that was stopping all my crimes from happening. I knew I had to end you." He sighed, but then smiled. "But hey, at least your end will be great fun for me!"

"Because I'm going to jump off this building?" Sherlock asked dryly. He was so angry, at this point, that he wouldn't even know how to express it if he was allowing it to show. Because of this, he didn't even have to try to look stony calm.

"Indeed you are. And, after the horrible fight you had with your _boyfriend_, who won't believe it's suicide?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "_That's_ your grand plan? I fall to my own death? Seems dull to me."

Moriarty's face slipped into a scowl. His lip twitched. "Would you rather I kill all your friends and then use the weight of their dead bodies to knock you off the building?" he asked coldly. At the way Sherlock's eyes widened in the horror he couldn't completely keep from his face, Moriarty smirked. "This end is a reward for you, Sherlock. For being as worthy of an adversary as an ordinary man is capable of being. I could make it much worse for you."

"So… I leap to my death, and it saves them," Sherlock summed up.

"That's it," Moriarty agreed. "Get the man a biscuit."

Sherlock was really astounded at how simple that decision was to him. As easy as the decision of whether or not he should brag would have been a year ago. Whether or not it was necessary to breath (whether or not breathing was incredibly dull). Sherlock didn't have to question it.

Sherlock would save John. It didn't matter if John was mad at him. Or if John hated him. Or if John never wanted to see him again. Or if John actually wanted him dead. No matter how John felt, Sherlock giving his life for his roommate was the easiest choice he had ever made.

So Sherlock nodded. "Sorry I couldn't be more interesting," he said sardonically.

"So am I," sighed Moriarty.

Sherlock stepped towards the ledge. Got up on it.

He got out his mobile phone, scrolled through his contacts towards John's name. He looked at it for a moment. Would it hurt worse if John didn't know anything happened at all, or if he knew Sherlock didn't even bother to say goodbye?

But, as it was, Sherlock didn't have to decide. Because the only thing that could possibly make the situation worse actually happened.

Sherlock heard the exact voice he both desperately wanted and also severely didn't want to hear.

"Sherlock Holmes, committing suicide? Come now, he likes himself far too much for that."

Sherlock's mouth went dry and he turned around, quite slowly. He half hoped he was just hearing him as a crazed hallucination in his final moments.

But when he had turned, John stood by the door back into the building, a foot away from Irene's prone body on the ground. He was looking at Moriarty with narrowed eyes, his arms crossed as if talking to a naughty seven year old.

"John Watson!" sang Moriarty. "You weren't invited to this party!"

"No, I suppose I wasn't."

"I like that gun in your pocket. You know a sniper would strike you down before you had the chance to shoot, right?"

"Oh, I know," John said. "I brought it to make myself feel better more than anything."

"Well, you probably do need some comfort now. Because, you see, Sherlock was supposed to jump and you were supposed to live. But now that you've gone and decided to come here, you've got to die too. I didn't intend for that, John."

John was still glaring at Moriarty, but Sherlock just wanted to meet eyes with him. John, what the hell were you thinking?

"So these snipers," John said. "Where are they?"

Moriarty laughed. "John, you actually think I'm stupid, don't you? You think I'm going to tell you?"

"You're going to kill me anyway. Who am I going to tell?"

"Probably the speaker attached to your jacket," said Moriarty, coming forward and yanking it off of John, throwing it on the ground and stepping on it. Moriarty walked around John and pulled off two more. Took another round.

Sherlock couldn't help but notice John looked... amazingly calm. After months and months of constant panic, or lethargy, or other signs of fear, here he was on the same rooftop as a killer, his life threatened, and he looked completely unfazed. His hands didn't shake. He wasn't inching away from Moriarty. He had a tiny, challenging smirk on his face. It was as if it was the anticipation John couldn't stand, but now that he was in the action… John had always felt at home in the middle of the conflict. So unlike his personality. One of the things Sherlock loved about him.

"Now," Moriarty said. "Do you still want to know where the snipers are? I'm positive there's no more bugs on you now."

John shrugged. "I don't care that much now, no, but I suppose stalling my death isn't a horrible idea, right?"

Moriarty smiled. "Good idea, John. See, I knew I liked you. Well, the snipers," he said. "They're after you and Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes."

"Naturally," John said. "Tell me something I don't know."

Moriarty smiled again, but it was strained. Sherlock wanted to tell John to stop testing him.

"Well, one is just across the way there," said Moriarty. "On top of the Physical Sciences building. I've got Seb on you. Another is…" Moriarty said, getting out an iPhone. "Greg's sniper is just on the building next to it. So is Mycroft's. They must be together… yes, at the café. How adorable."

"Just the three, then?" asked John. "I thought you'd have each of us followed by several or something."

"No," Moriarty said, "My snipers don't miss. They don't need backup."

John nodded, and Sherlock saw the nerves showing a little now.

So did Moriarty. "Are you running out of ways to stall?" he asked.

"A bit, yeah," said John. He finally looked to Sherlock, and his eyes said 'I'm sorry'.

Sherlock tried to translate the same thing back. They were both about to die, so Sherlock wasn't planning on having some stupid argument get between them in their last moments. John seemed to have the same sentiment.

"Probably I should give you two some time alone," said Moriarty. "But, I don't think so! Any last words, John?"

John swallowed visibly. "No, I guess not. Not for you, anyway." He was still looking at Sherlock.

"Does he really have to die?" blurted out Sherlock accidentally.

Moriarty looked to him with a smirk. "Oh yes, definitely. And you're going to watch."

And a moment later, the horrifying red dot that Sherlock had previously seen on Irene was now there on John. Sherlock couldn't breathe. No, this couldn't be happening. Not John. Sherlock couldn't let John die.

"John!" he yelped, before being able to stop himself.

And then there was the gunshot.

* * *

**I decided to post all the chapters at once, since they're all done. So go right to the next one!**


	48. Chapter 47: Kiss and Make Up

John actually did jump when he heard the shot, but since he didn't fall over dead immediately after, things must've gone the way they were supposed to.

He looked to Moriarty, who was looking at him with wide eyes that were slowly filling with fury.

Even through that, he smiled. "Why are you still alive?"

And John grinned at him. "I know you _think_ I'm stupid, but actually, I'm not. I didn't come here without a plan. And let me tell you, you've lost."

And then all the suits appeared out of every nook and cranny in the vicinity. John didn't know what part of the government they worked for, or how Mycroft had gotten them here so fast, or how they had killed all of Moriarty's snipers in thirty seconds, but he didn't really care. All that mattered was that, for _once_, everything was actually going according to plan.

Moriarty looked around at all of them, his breathing hard as his lip twitched. He looked back to Sherlock, who still looked a bit shaken from the gunshot that he must've thought was for John.

"Well," said Moriarty. "It seems you've proven a worthy adversary after all. Well, you and your… _friends_." He started taking steps toward Sherlock.

"Don't move!" yelled one of Mycroft's men.

Moriarty halted quickly, his hands up, and smiled. "Come, men. What're you waiting for? Worried I might suddenly pull out a mini-gun? Even if I did have a weapon, I suspect my own guns are trained at me right now, my snipers dead on the floor. So what's with the hesitation?" His eyes flicked around, just the way Sherlock's always did, looking for a clue. "Oh," he said. "I'm standing too close to Sherlock. You can't get a proper shot on me. And only one sniper was in this area, John's, so maybe… The gun must've been damaged. Meaning you only have those handguns, and you can't stop yourself from hitting Sherlock if you shoot me with those."

John looked over to Sherlock again. His own gun was out now, at his side. He didn't want Moriarty to notice he had it out. He tried to communicate with Sherlock mentally. Their bond was still there even after their stupid fight, wasn't it?

And John saw Sherlock's eyes flit to the gun, to John's face, to an area to his right. Then the barely-perceivable nod just before Sherlock ducked down, rolling away towards that clear right side, and before Moriarty could get out his gun, which he was obviously reaching for, John shot.

Killing a man wasn't all that different, technically, than his hunting and trips to the shooting range had been, it seemed, because his aim was true. Probably it was the adrenaline more than his skill, though. A few more shots sounded a moment later, from the agents, but they hadn't been expecting Sherlock's dive the way John had been, so they took longer to react.

Then there was a torrent of movement and chaos from the agents in the area. None of them actually paid John any mind at all. Maybe they didn't realise he'd fired the shot. There were a ton of guns in the area, after all. He not-so-slyly put his gun back under his jacket, but still nobody was looking to him in shock or anything. In fact, they were being pushed back into the building, told that they were to get out of the area immediately. There was an ambulance that the both of them were led to, and people gave them blankets and asked them if they were feeling alright. One man suggested John and Sherlock both get a cuppa to ease their nerves after they were allowed to leave.

So John and Sherlock were sitting side by side in the back of an ambulance, stupid orange blankets wrapped around their shoulders. Sherlock kept pushing his off, but people wouldn't stop putting it back on.

"John," Sherlock murmured when the area was empty for a few moments. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course I'm alright," John replied.

Sherlock looked over to him penetratingly. "You _have_ just killed a man."

John nodded. "That's true," said John. "But he wasn't a very _nice_ man."

Sherlock almost smiled. "No, no he wasn't really, was he?

"And frankly," John continued, "a bloody awful professor. You should have seen some of the things he taught in Calculus." Sherlock coughed out a surprised laugh at that, and John couldn't help but giggle along. "Sherlock, we probably shouldn't be laughing right now," added John.

"Probably not," he agreed. "But we're in shock, remember? Blankets." He wiggled the corner of his orange blanket in John's face.

But John became serious again, looking at Sherlock closely. At his eyes, his lips, his everything. "Sherlock, I should've believed you," he said.

"So you do now?" Sherlock asked steadily.

John smiled a little. "Yeah. Dunno why, but now I feel like accusing you at all was stupid."

"And I probably shouldn't've have baited you by going to meet her either," Sherlock said. "Then I wouldn't've ended up on that rooftop anyway."

"No, but then she wouldn't be dead, so…"

Sherlock looked at him, surprised. "You're wishing _death_ on her?"

"No, no, not _really_. I'd never have killed her myself or anything. But am I sad she's gone? Not particularly. She was trying to sleep with you and get you killed, two things I _really_ don't appreciate."

"Well, I should keep in mind never to get you angry," Sherlock joked.

"Please. Your day isn't complete if you haven't made me angry."

Sherlock smiled. "No, it's much more fun that way."

John rolled his eyes.

Then Sherlock said, "But how did all of that just happen?"

John wondered when that was going to come up. "Mycroft," said John. "He made some calls."

"God, what am I going to owe him now?" Sherlock whined.

"A thank you, for starters."

"Not happening."

"A simple 'thank you'? That's too much to ask?"

"How did they manage it?" Sherlock asked, ignoring John.

John sighed and said, "Mycroft's apparently had the roof bugged ever since I was kidnapped. So when Moriarty checked _me_ for a bug, he found the ones I planted there that I knew he'd find. But there were twelve on the rooftop, apparently. So they just listened, and when Moriarty said where the snipers were, they were all killed. I don't know what was with that last gunshot though. They were all supposed to be done silently, so Moriarty didn't know, but one of the fights must've gotten messy."

"Sebastian Moran put up a fight," said Mycroft, who had suddenly appeared, the way he so often did. "And during the struggle, as Moriarty presumed, his gun was damaged. Pushed down an elevator shaft, to be precise."

Greg was standing beside Mycroft, looking awkwardly at Sherlock.

"Erm…" he muttered. "Sherlock—"

"Whatever heartfelt apology you've been writing mentally for the past half-hour is unnecessary, Lestrade," he said. John was worried, for a moment, Sherlock meant he wasn't going to forgive Greg. But then Sherlock added, "I probably should've listened to you when you said she can't be trusted."

Greg smiled a little. "So we're okay?"

"You're still an idiot, for thinking I'd sleep with her, but yes, we're 'okay'."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Dunno why I would want to be friends with you at all, but good. But, Myc, I do believe these love birds want to be left alone."

"It seems so, yes," Mycroft replied, turning to walk away with Greg.

Sherlock got a petulant, annoyed look on his face, but then he sighed, "Mycroft." Mycroft turned to look at him. "Thank you for not letting me get murdered," He muttered, making the sentence nearly incomprehensible.

Mycroft just gave one of his tiny smiles. "Just try not to get killed again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and he and John sat in the back of the ambulance, leaning against one another.

* * *

**Pretty much done. Next chapter is ending fluff. Short, which I apologise for. So onto the end!**


	49. Chapter 48: Changed

Sherlock Holmes was, as a grievous understatement, an unusual person. But, to be fair to him, he never had much chance to be otherwise.

Sometimes, there are cases of peculiar human beings born to quite ordinary families—the black sheep. It was quite common, actually. But Sherlock, he was a bit of a different story. It was as if he had an entire family of black sheep and he turned out some weird silver colour, an anomaly amongst anomalies.

But, in the end, maybe the most intriguing thing about Sherlock was that he convinced everyone he was some sort of great abnormality, incapable of human affection, when really that wasn't true at all.

His mind wasn't changed now. It was still one of the greatest probably ever to exist.

He looked to the man who was working the ambulance and knew he was cheating on his wife and owned three cats. One of the cops in the area looked like a woman, but was actually previously a man, and she/he was annoyed to be here because she had a date that she was late to. He could tell who was in the middle of sex when they were called here, who forgot deodorant, who had the alcohol problem, and who had quite indecent sexual feelings towards children.

He could still see all the things he always had been able to. In that way, he was exactly the same.

What had changed was his heart, the one people swore he never had.

As Sherlock sat with a blanket draped on his shoulder, John leaning heavily into his side, he realised he was completely content. He didn't know he was capable of feeling that way about life when he wasn't solving a case.

But now, the ultimate case was solved, it seemed. Maybe, a year ago, he'd've been happy for this type of case. One that had stretched his mind. Had turned out as something he couldn't even solve alone.

But now he had John, and being in danger for the sake of it wasn't quite as attractive as before. Not that it'd lost all appeal, of course. Even John liked danger. But Sherlock had never before had something to live for, something that was worth surviving to keep.

But now he did.

Sherlock and John were told they were free to go, after being asked a question or two by Lestrade Sr, and they both started walking aimlessly.

"I can't believe he's actually gone," said John.

Sherlock nodded. "No, neither can I, really. In the end, it wasn't even me that stopped him."

"Does that upset you?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I wish I'd figured out a way, sure, but this worked out fine. We're both alive, which is the important outcome."

John smiled. "You know, Sherlock of six months ago wouldn't've felt that way about it. He'd've been furious he didn't solve it."

"Well, I'm not the same Sherlock I was before," he admitted.

"Then what kind of Sherlock are you now?"

Sherlock stopped walking and turned to John. "The kind that's stupid enough to fall in love."

John grinned. "I've ruined you, haven't I?"

"Maybe. I just don't care much."

John nodded. "You know, that flat in London is actually plausible now that you're not going to die."

Sherlock's heart felt light at the thought. Living in a flat with John… It was the next great adventure. "We should probably finish school first," he said, hiding his enthusiasm.

"Right, of course," John agreed. "But it's a nice thought."

"I agree." They began to walk again.

"I wonder who my new maths teacher will be," mused John.

Sherlock smirked. "Hopefully this one won't be a murderer," he replied.

"Dunno, could be fun."

Sherlock grinned. "I think I'm the one that ruined you," he decided.

"Probably," John said. "But I'm kind of in love with you too, so I think it's a fair trade-off."

"Trading sanity for love? That's idiotic."

"Well, you did it too, so we're both idiots."

"_I'm_ not an idiot," Sherlock said. "My sanity is completely intact."

"What, you've had sanity before?"

The two of them bickered like this for a while, and he and John continued to walk. And if they continued to walk like this forever, even if they just made fun of one another with their fingers intertwined between them, Sherlock could still be happy.

* * *

**And so ends the tale of Westwood University.**

**Thank you all so so so so so so SO SO SO much for reading this. This story went over so much better than I thought it would. If I'd've known that so many people would like this story, that it'd end up being as long as a novel… it's just crazy. Just thank you for all the wonderful reviews, and the favourites and the follows and everything. And thank you for the constructive criticism in the reviews too, which I did appreciate. I just wanted this to be a story that wasn't just what I wanted, but was what the readers wanted too. Without suggestions from all of you, this would have been half the length.**

**And hey, if you're someone who just started reading now and were not getting the live updates, thank you too! I'm glad you took the time to read this outrageously long tale.**

**And now I can go have a life, probably, since I've barely had one since I started this story. **

**Lastly, if you all have no idea what to do with your lives now that you've finished, I have a suggestion. After you go and read all the rest of my Johnlocks, you should go find the profile of ****_Quinn Anderson_**** and go read her Johnlocks. Honestly, they're outstanding. Her skill makes me look like a baby in a trench coat. They're all so good. And tell her bethanyyerinn referred you to her too, because she knows me from how often I send her long reviews. **

**So yes. Thank you. Bless you. **


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